


Never Forgotten

by mythic0wings



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Branding, Bruises, Dizzy spells, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Kink Meme, Nightmares, Shock, Team as Family, Vomiting, Whump, peter whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythic0wings/pseuds/mythic0wings
Summary: With Ronan defeated, galaxy saved, and their records expunged, Peter and his crew take the time for a celebratory night out. Lingering behind to pay, Peter gets accosted by a group of aliens who aren't so pleased with how quickly people forget what Peter did as a Ravager.





	1. Accosted

**Author's Note:**

> This was done for a kinkmeme prompt that can be found here: http://guardian-kink.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=1259431#t1259431
> 
> Tags and rating may or may not change as the story goes on. If you feel that the rating can go up or down or that tags need to be added. Let me know~
> 
> Prompt: Before he became a Big Damn Hero, Peter was pretty notorious throughout the galaxy for his antics with the ravagers. 
> 
> Naturally his evolution into a suddenly worshipped hero rubs some people up the wrong way. 
> 
> Give me something where those people manage to get Peter alone and brand him with something to ensure he never forgets his criminal past. Maybe an "R" for Ravager on his wrist, or anything to that effect. 
> 
> With huge bonus for Peter hiding the brand for as long as possible from his team, because he's embarrassed that it happened but also kind of guilty and feels like he might have deserved it.

Neon lights hum softly against the noise of the bar, faces lit from beneath by grills built into the tables. The smell of cooking meat churns in the air, offset by sweetly-scented alcohol. It’s a place for good times and long nights. 

They’ve just wrapped up a job, spoiling themselves with the well-known barbeque of this planet. And maybe more than little of the accompanying booze. Tonight as the Guardians polish off their food and drink it’s Peter’s turn to dish out the units (Most of the time it’s his turn, which he objects to but coughs up the units anyway). So naturally, the burning stares Peter has been feeling on his back the whole night get more intense once everyone else heads back to the  _ Milano _ . 

It’s in taking back his card that he can feel three others right behind him.  _ Personal space much.  _ Peter thinks dryly. Turning around he flashes his most friendliest grin at the trio of Space Invaders. “Hey there, if you’ll excuse me I just need to get by real quick.” He told them cheerily, already stepping forward with one shoulder angled forward. 

Despite the glares Peter caught in their eyes they let him pass between them, two of them brushing against his chest and back. Only parting just enough for Peter to squeeze through. As soon as he’s past them the grin drops from his face, eyes rolling. A niggling feeling of unease prickles at the back of his neck. Not because of the glares or the stares (he’s weathered enough of those through his life) but the persistence behind it. Ever since he and the rest of the crew had entered the establishment eyes had been on him. 

Now though he heard heavy footsteps following him out of the bar, behind him but not on his heels. Peter deliberately doesn’t look behind him to see if they’re following him. He takes care not to walk faster than a relaxed pace, does not play music from his ever-present walkman. When one is followed it’s always best to not look like you know someone is following you. 

It’s being focused on those behind him however, that prevents him from the alien that steps in front of him not too far from the entrance of the bar. Peter rocks back, chests bumping together, and raises his eyes to the other’s face. This alien is taller than he though not overly muscled. Patchy skin of black and white drawn sharply on a reptilian face. Slitted red eyes pair with a sneer on their face and Peter finds a hand fisting in his jacket. 

“Woah! Hand off the jacket.” Peter said sharply, pushing the alien’s hand off of his jacket roughly. The alien lets go and Peter takes a step back, stopping just short of one of the guys from the bar. Peter can feel their breath down the back of his neck, drawing the lines of his shoulders tight. Even so, his easy-going grin quirks up a corner of his mouth. Empty hands drawing up even with his shoulders. “Hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I was rude, bumping into y- “ 

Peter is cut off as the black-and-white alien grabs his jacket again but this time the Terran hybrid is tossed bodily into the bar’s alley. Landing roughly on his left shoulder and side, Peter groans past tight lips. Not that he wastes any time in getting back on his feet; friendly-demeanor gone as quickly as it had come. “What is your problem, dude?” He grouses, hands curling into loose fists at his side. He was going to have bruises tomorrow, he’d bet on it. 

Peter can feel his body winding up for a fight, chest expanding with deep breaths whilst muscles coil tight under his skin. Watching the three from the bar plus the one who threw him stride toward him without a word. All wearing matching glares and scowls. The fact that none of them are even trying to speak to him unsettles Peter. He’s a mouthy sonvabitch and most pissed off folk like to spill  _ why _ they’re so damn mad. Especially when Peter gets to opening his mouth. “Are you a-holes deaf? I asked a question.” He told them, feet shifting apart as the quartet starts to close in around him again. 

“ _ You _ are our problem,  _ Guardian _ .” One off to his left growled, their timbre closer to a trilling bird than anything fearsome. Acid dripping from the title ‘Guardian.’ 

“Nova Prime may have forgiven your atrocities but everyone in the galaxy knows you’re just a filthy  _ Ravager _ .” Another seethed, anger rolling off of them in waves from Peter’s back. Or really all around Peter; from their body language to the undisguised hatred or disgust in their eyes, anger surrounded him. Well, they were sure talking now. Slowly closing in on Peter. Cutting off his exits. 

Peter knows that he should just punch one of them, make an opening for himself, but that’s risky when we can’t easily keep track of more than two them at any time. “Haven’t seen the news yet? You guys must live under a rock.” He scoffed, uncurling his hands to place them on his hips. Waiting. “‘Yondu himself put a bounty on my head. I’m not a Ravager anymore.” Peter finished. 

Spotty (it was easier than Mr. Black-and-White) actually  _ hissed _ at him now, leaning down toward Peter’s face. “Fancy titles don’t make you a hero, Quill.” Their thin lips pulled back from needle-sharp teeth, voice dry as Peter’s leather jacket. “Doesn’t erase what you do.” 

Peter does not punch Spotty right in his stupid mug when the alien leans into his space, his face. Inhaling sharply while keeping those on either side in his peripherals. “I think stopping Ronan kind of does make me a hero. Sort of ya know, saved the galaxy, that I  _ guard _ .” He quipped, working to keep his own voice level. 

Now, Peter knew he’d done a  _ lot _ of shady crap under Yondu, he’d crossed a lot of people. He’d always tried to be good about it though, be business-like. Apparently there was a “Those-Crossed-By-Peter-Quill” counselling group. Great. 

“I doubt that, with your ‘crew.’” Bird-man chirruped, the wave of liquor-laced breath wafting over Peter whose nose scrunched at the smell. 

That comment had Peter turning toward the speaker, arm already winding back for a punch, knuckles white. “You don’t get to talk about my fr-!” He snarled, cutting himself off as his fist made contact with a bony surface. “My  _ crew _ .” Peter finished, watching Bird-man as those around him hissed, spat, and growled so deep it shook Peter’s chest. 

Bird-man had stumbled back, a clawed (taloned?) hand holding its rounded cheek before they refocused on Peter. Their eyes burning with the ire behind those black orbs. If Peter wasn’t in the middle of calming down he might have compared the guy to a parakeet or a pea-green canary. Short, furious caws that Peter’s translator doesn’t catch filling the alley.

One of the litany of angry sounds drops away to Peter’s left; the second speaker. Its absence has Peter turning his head toward them. Taking in the weird mish-mash of humanoid and insect, their skin colored a mottled black and brown and orange. Peter can see they're still pissed but a curious tilt of the head has dread coiling in Peter’s stomach.

“Do you consider that band of criminals your friends, Quill?” They rasp, multi-faceted eyes drawing to slits. 

Peter does a quick check of all four of those around him, face settling into a calm expression. Schooling is early outburst. “What’s it to you?” He shot back, starting to wonder if the others were going to be targeted as well or already  _ were _ . Not that there was much short of a small army that could subdue his newfound crew. After all, of the five, Peter was the least intimidating among them. (He isn’t going to count Groot under him, the guy is a sapling right now) No genetic modifications or crazy improvisation skills or natural brute strength. He just had his gadgets and his words. Well, right now words were failing him. 

“We can’t let them forget what you were, what you  _ are.” _ Buggy stated, that glaring stare leaving Peter to look behind him at Spotty. 

At that Peter’s brow knitted together, twisting to face Buggy better, mouth open; questioning. Before he could get a word out however two arms, splotched white and black, shot under his arms and thin, spindly fingers cupped the back of Peter’s head. Wrenching his shoulders back while tucking his chin against his chest. “What the, get off me shithead!” Peter ground out, his toes dragging on the stone floor of the alley as he’s pulled to Spotty’s chest. His hands reaching back but finding nothing to grip on Spotty’s featureless head. Peter has to grit his teeth when he feels Spotty’s needle-like teeth graze his hand. Subdued lines of pain making Peter sure that his hand is going to start bleeding soon, if it hasn’t already. 

Curling his legs up to lash out at Spotty has the only non-speaker of the group grabbing one leg and stretching it out fully. Peter puffs out a breath, the hold on him making deep breaths awkward as he takes in A-hole number four. 

This guy has skin that shines even in the low-light of the alley and it isn’t arms that hold Peter’s leg but muscle bound tentacles. Even now Peter can feel the small suckers gripping at his skin through his pants. 

Aside from frustrating Peter, how he’s being held doesn’t allow him to notice when Bird-man goes back inside the bar through the back door. What he does notice is Buggy slicing through his shirt with his sharper-than-they-ought-to-be nails. Exposing a good chunk of flesh on his right side. 

Gritting his teeth Peter awkwardly tried to kick Buggy with his only free leg. The only thing he got was one less free leg. Twisting and pulling don’t help him and he isn’t in a position to leverage his weight, muscle, or wit against them. “Motherfu- ! What’s your damn plan?” Peter demanded; resting momentarily as he panted from the exertion. 

“To make sure you do not forget your transgressions.” Spotty rumbled in his ear, Peter jerked his head away. Or at least as much as he could in the hold. 

“Transgressions? Sounds like a big word for four dudes trying to rough up one guy.” Peter sniped, muscles straining as he attempted and failed to pull his legs free of the other two. The effort leaving him breathing harshly, fighting to tilt his head back to breathe easier. 

A softer, but all the more ominous hiss cuts into the air over Peter’s harsh breaths. This hiss not coming from either Spotty of Buggy; no, this sounded closer to water touching a hot pan. 

Peter stills, swallowing as he lifts his head just enough to catch the swinging end of some kind of metal stick. It’s end a hypnotizing red-white in the dark of the afternoon. Then panic takes root in his mind and he twists and pulls with every muscle in him to get free. His blunt nails scratching at any part of Spotty they can reach.  _ Shit! Shit! Shit!  _ His brain elegantly supplies. Not that his renewed struggles get him anymore than tighter grips on his bucking form. His legs pulled back a little more, twisting him to his hips to expose the patch of skin. 

Peter’s mouth is dry, eyes trailed on the glowing end of the brand. The fucking  _ brand. _ He was- he was  _ cattle _ to them! Muscles still twitching futily he sees the shape when the white-hot end is raised up.

A ragged ‘R.’ 

The edges jagged, clearly ametuer work. How some part of his brain catalogues this he isn’t sure. Only that his weak flailing isn’t getting him dropped or that brand any further from his skin. Peter isn’t sure the exact moment he loses track of the brand only that his throat constricts around a strangled scream. His body bowing as much as it can as fire races over his skin. Wiping his mind of all thought besides the white-hot but rapidly fading pain. He can’t question why it stop hurting, only that it did. Every muscle in his body quivers, taxed but still fighting. The smell of grilling meat filling the air alongside burning hair.


	2. Picking Yourself Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Peter wants is to head straight back to the Milano, but his body just ain't having it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the rest of the Guardians will make an appearance! It's just really late and this chapter needed a good cutting point. Forgive me, please.

By the time Peter comes back to himself he’s on the filthy floor, chest flat to it and a prevailing sense of numbness coming from his right side. A soft whimpering whine echos in the alley. It takes him a moment to realize it’s  _ him _ whimpering. Wrestling control over himself, Peter heaves himself up onto his hands and knees. Sucking in ragged breaths he can feel his whole body shaking, threatening to dump him back onto the stone floor if he rushes it. 

Swallowing thickly, Peter can still smell  _ his side _ being cooked and his stomach rolls. An unproductive heave that Peter has to abort, the back of his hand pushed under his nose and over his mouth. Chills run alongside the weakness in his limbs but the Terran hybrid manages to calm the shakes enough that he climbs to his feet. Suddenly-clumsy hands pawing at a nearby dumpster for leverage. His legs quake under his weight and he has to breathe for several long moments. 

Peter whips his head around as a slice of bright light spills into the alley, instinctively he pulls his (thankfully) intact jacket closer to his middle. Spurring himself into motion as he leaves the alley. His first steps are unsure but he doesn’t keel over and soon enough he’s walking at a steady pace. Fingers fumbling to zip up his jacket while he absolutely does  _ not _ look down. Only reaching down to press the well-worn play button of his walkman, headphones placed gently over his ears. 

It’s one of the few times he doesn’t actually listen to the music, doesn’t breath a single lyric. Drowning himself in the sound so he doesn’t have to think about how he isn’t really hurting (his left side, however, is rife with pulsing spots of pain from being thrown and held tight). Or the warm wetness seeping into the top of his pants. Or how he feels chilly on a planet that is supposed to be somewhere between summer and spring weather. 

Not that he gets especially far, stumbling into the smooth wall of a building as a wave of dizziness assaults him. Tilting his world at a vicious angle while black threatens to encroach on the edges. Blinking hard, Peter takes in great gulps of air to steady himself.  _ Fuck! Not good. _ He muses, looking up and around the area. He can’t show up to the  _ Milano _ if he’s going to keel over. He must look like shit too. Running a hand through his hair, he leans away from the wall and continues forward on trembling legs. 

Despite the late hour of the planet, there are quite a few places flashing the word “open” in varying languages in their windows and doors. Most of them are some sort of erotic show or another, seedier bar. The closer he gets to the docking stations he knows he’ll find something that will hopefully be a little cleaner. As he makes his way in the general direction of his ship he stays within arms reach of the buildings. Each step giving an odd pulling sensation that he doesn’t really feel where they got him but more so around it. 

He’s had burns before, and they had hurt: stung, smarted, basically any word that described an annoying kind of pain. So this numbness is threw him for a loop; just how bad was the damage? A part of him tells him to get to a damn doctor but he also doesn’t want to worry his crew. He’s supposed to be right behind them and he has no idea just how much time he’s lost already. He’ll just have to rig something together before he gets to the  _ Milano  _ and puts a real bandage on it. 

It’s when he almost to the  _ Milano _ that he spies a clean-looking place that’s still open. Only a few vibrantly colored patrons are sitting in the windows. From the images cycling on the windows it’s some kind of food place. He hopes they’re up to code as he draws close, gently lowering the volume on his walkman. Peter isn’t up to anyone else getting the jump on him tonight. 

Entering the establishment he quickly locates the bathroom (thankfully not already taken), and dips inside. It’s one of those bathrooms that built to only house one individual at a time; a toilet, a urinal, and a metal basin serving as a sink. There is a mirror, fogged around the edges and a crack winding from one corner all the down to the bottom. But it looks and smells decently cleaned.  _ They do upkeep, awesome _ . Peter noted, unzipping his jacket with a wince from his shoulder’s renewed complaints. He drops it into the dry sink where his walkman and ripped shirt follows. The tattered edges turning the gray to more of a black or brown where it had been touching his side. Swearing under his breath Peter turns his ride side to the mirror, pausing longer than he should before looking down at the brand mark. 

Truthfully, he thought it’d look worse than it does; ragged lines making up the ‘R’ are a white color, some spots brown or even black. It’s the area around it that is an angry and painful looking cherry red. Blood seeps around the edges which is what stained not only his shirt but is working on the top of his pants. Scowling Peter tucked his clothes under his arm (okay,  _ ow _ , right between his shoulders was  _ not _ happy), flipping open the button on his pants so he can pull them away from the burn. 

Another thing he notices is that it isn’t even really that big of a mark, maybe four inches tall at the most. He isn’t sure if he should be thankful or not about that. Now comes cleaning it. He quickly scrubs his hands with soap and water, but has to take a break in that as another wave of vertigo puts his forehead to the mirror. Breaths coming heavy from his chest. “Stupid body, get over it.” Peter reprimands himself with a small shake of his head. His hands are starting to steady even if his knees still feel a little weak. 

Once his hands are clean and dry he shoves a few sections of paper towels into his pants. Wetting a few more that he uses to dab at the burn. Wiping away the blood only prompts more to surface however, tiny beads of red that stand out sharply against the white of the brand. Exhaling sharply through his nose, Peter crumples up the paper towels in his hand and tosses them into the trash. Getting a fresh set which he puts both soap and water on this time, gently scrubbing it. Again, the general lack of pain unsettles Peter. Only the redden area around it really protests to the treatment it gets as he cleans it. 

Grabbing his shirt Peter takes a moment to lament the article, “You’ve done me well.” He tells it right before ripping it along the seam. Thread snaps apart like fire crackers under the strain, followed by a long ripping sound as he tears the knitted fabric into several strips. He wishes his shirt was cleaner but he can’t go back with freaking  _ paper towels _ pressed to his side. He feels his hands shaking again after ripping up his shirt, breaths coming a little too quick for such a simple task. 

Holding the dry paper towels to his side he curls a fist about the strips and takes another break to breathe. Fine tremors running under skin as he shakily inhales and exhales. Blinking away spots from his vision. “F-Fuck.” Peter curses, head bowed forward. He does this for almost a minute, steadying himself enough to wrap the remains of his shirt around his torso. Tying the ends together for one long line. 

That accomplished he runs a trembling hand over his face, leaning against the sink to look at himself in the mirror. His face has drawn look to it, weary. One could draw a fine comparison between the color of his burn and his face. Sallow and waxy in such a way to intensify the shadows of his cheekbones. A stray shiver has Peter putting his remaining articles back on, jacket zipped up to the hollow of his throat. 

Running water over his hands he scrubs it over his face, through his hair. Hoping to collect himself to some satisfaction. The  _ Milano _ is too confined for the others to not notice he’s paler and shakier than normal. There are times when he really regrets them all living on one vessel. This is a close one. Thinking of them and the brand however sets a cold lump of emotion in his stomach. They know he was a part of the Ravagers (emphasis on  _ was) _ , they know the Ravager’s reputation. So why is shame taking root in him? 

Oh yeah. Because the Ravagers are some of the shittest groups there is, and he joined (then left) them. 

Peter gives himself a mental slap and steps away from the sink. “Get over yourself Peter. You’re all shitty people.” He muttered, pulling the collar of his jack a little straighter. Even as he said it, Peter disagreed. Sure, before Ronan they all had rap sheets a mile long but as people, as friends, they were a decent bunch. Even Rocket who pilfered his ship, his baby, for parts to make weapons. Mostly bombs.

Noting that he left the bathroom, leaving his walkman around his neck. Taking steady breaths in and out to (fingers crossed) stave off another dizzy spell. Halfway to the door his legs simply fall out from under him without warning. Knees buckling so he has to grab a table or else end up painfully on the floor. He manages, but his palms slide on the smooth surface (when had they gotten so slick?) while chairs screech in protest of being moved. 

Peter feels the eyes of the patrons on him, questioning, curious, one even shifting to stand. But he hauls himself back onto unstable legs and resets the chairs. God, laying down in his bunk seemed like a fantastic idea right now. All he has to do is haul his sorry ass to the  _ Milano _ , get past the others (who are no doubt still up), redress his burn  _ without _ anyone noticing, and boom! He can just sleep this off. 

It sounded way too simple, even in his head. But it’s a plan and he’ll run with it. It’s not worth bothering them with a burn, it isn’t the worst injury he’s had. 

He leaves before Concerned Bystander can approach him, walking faster than he should up to his ship. His trembling coming in waves and he stumbles a time or two more before he steps onto the  _ Milano’s _ ramp. Anyone watching probably thinks he’s drunk off his ass. That though earns a small huff of laughter as Peter reaches up to the access panel. Pulling himself up straighter, so he doesn’t immediately look like he’ll keel over at a light breeze, and opens the hatch. 


	3. Just Don't Look Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am Groot.” It’s just a little peep, almost a squeak but it gets everyone’s attention.   
> Rocket’s sharp face becomes thoughtful; intelligent eyes going from Peter to Groot and back again. “You’re right, Groot, he does look paler than normal. Late, too.” Rocket conferred with the sapling. “Something hold you up, Quill?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number three! I hope everyone comes out okay and that Peter's logic sounds like Peter. I got to squick myself a little for this chapter. Ugh. Ew. :X

True to his earlier musings, the rest of the Guardians as awake and milling in the common area. Clutter covers most of the flat space there is whether it be Peter’s, Rocket’s little “projects”, Gamora’s organized piles of documents, Drax’s knives, and of course, Groot’s pot. Four pairs of eyes look up as he closes the hatch behind him, Gamora straightening from where she peers at an open file.

Her eyes find him and Peter can feel his back grow tense, waiting for her to say something as those clever, beautiful eyes look him over. The smallest of frowns pulling at her mouth. She doesn’t question him yet, probably trying to figure out what handed his butt to him. “You’re back.”

“Yup.”  _ Well, that took all of five seconds _ . Peter thought sourly even as he doesn’t break stride, heading right for the fridge that never feels big enough. (even if it is huge and Peter would have never been able to fill it by himself.) Pulling open the doors he dips forward, feeling the skin around his eyes tighten at the complaint of sore shoulders. He is going to be feeling something tomorrow for sure. In checking the fridge however, he frowns and turns toward the door on his right. Shifting around various containers but still not finding what he was looking for. 

Knowing he had left it either in plain sight upon opening or on the right door he leaned back. Closing the fridge while keeping his slick fingers wrapped around the handles. Tilting his head back toward the corner where Rocket sat next to Groot’s pot doing… something. Peter is really, really,  _ really _ not up for an argument right now but he knows it’s about to happen. He’s paler than usual, shaking like a leaf, and stupid tired. “Hey, Rocket. You know where my burn ointment is?” He asked, plastering a rather insincere smile on his face as he did. “Because it was in the fridge.” 

Rocket doesn’t even look up from his tinkering but Peter knows he has Rocket’s attention because tiny ears turn back toward him. “I didn’t take it, Peter. Your dumb ointment isn’t even combustible.” The racoon returned cooly, rotating his project in dexterous paws. 

Peter pursed his lips, lifting his gaze to the ceiling as he explains, “That’s because it treats burns, not causes them. Which is what I told you when you took it the first time.” 

Now Rocket raised his head, twisting to look Peter full on. “Oh, so I took it this time too? You sure you didn’t just use it up and  _ forgot _ ?” He suggested with a small curl of his lip. 

Taking a step back from the fridge Peter eyed Rocket, aware of the solid wall that’s  _ just _ too far away for him to look casual leaning on it. Aware of how weak his knees feel. “Pretty sure, man.” Peter said, “Whatever though, you say you didn’t take so I’ll take your word. This time.” He tagged on, raising his open hands to his shoulders. Turning away as he feels a quiet descend over the common area behind him. Oh that can’t be good. 

“I am Groot.” It’s just a little peep, almost a squeak but it gets everyone’s attention. 

Rocket’s sharp face becomes thoughtful; intelligent eyes going from Peter to Groot and back again. “You’re right, Groot, he does look paler than normal. Late, too.” Rocket conferred with the sapling. “Something hold you up, Quill?” He prodded unabashedly. 

Peter stirs himself back into motion again, calling over his shoulder. “Some idiot tried to take my wallet.” A simple lie. Tiny even. “I took care of it, end of story.” At least that’s all he’s going to tell them. The best white lies are simple ones after all. Without giving the others a chance to question him further he ducks into the lavatory, locking the door behind him. It’s the only door on the  _ Milano _ that even has a lock on it. A request Nova had actually listened to when they rebuilt her. 

Quickly he wrestled the modestly sized medical kit from the closet, gently placing it on the sink as he pops it open. Inside is an unorganized mess of supplies ranging from actual band aids (though with none of the Terran packaging) to legitimate opiates. Digging out a big enough gauze pad plus a (most likely expired) tube of ointment. It’s crinkled, practically empty but it’s all he’s got. So stripping off his jacket again he braces his left side (pressure, ouch) on the wall in case his legs fall out from under him again. He feels like a damn toddler, falling all over the place. 

Despite the short walk from one bathroom to the next there is a dotting stain on the remains of his t-shirt. Removing the strips carefully, leaning forward to fetch a cloth from the closet. Flipping open the trash chute next to him he tosses the ruined remains down it, opening his hand to brace it on the bathroom sink. Wet towel, clean up the burn, dry any moisture left over. Same process as before. Now he fights to get more than a dot of the ointment from the tube. Pressing it to the side of the sink as he goes from bottom to top, watching whatever was left fill just under the cap. Shit, he really needs to take stock of their supplies. 

What he manages to squeeze out is enough however, creating a thin coat over the brand mark, cooling the red skin around it. Swiping the leftover gunk onto the cloth Peter leans his head back against the wall. Puffing out a breath between tight lips he lets his eyes slip close. If he’s going to be doing this multiple times a day he’s going to get quick about it. Again, a tiny voice recommends a doctor, just  _ telling _ them but he squashes it down. He’s got this handled. It’d just make them worry for no reason. _ Don’t be a burden _ , a smaller, child-like voice pipes up. 

Snorting softly he applies the gauze pad and tapes it in place. Throwing pity parties already? He’s pathetic all right. 

Once more, jacket on, supplies cleaned up and cloth down the trash. Knowing he’s already spent a lot of time in the bathroom he quickly brushes his teeth. Hoping they don’t ask if they hear the water running for too little time. As he’s rinsing off his toothbrush he spots the thin scratches on the back of his hand. Oh yeah, Spotty had got him there. They’re small, barely-there lines a little irritated around the edges. Hardly noticeable. But it’s one more thing to keep an eye on he guesses. 

Exiting the lavatory he doesn’t look into the common area but heads right for his bunk. Fingers straying to a button that engages the newly added privacy shutters. They slide into place with a series of clicks and clacks but block him from view. Something he normally doesn’t do but he didn’t bring clothes into the bathroom to change into. Speaking of, he collects some light sweats and a looser t-shirt. Standing up from being over his drawers he sucks in a breath, black covering his vision from the motion. Peter falls onto the hull of his ship, knowing he blacks out for the barest of seconds. Every part of him limp and supporting itself against the hull. 

When he can see straight again short breaths ghost past his lips until he inhales deeply. Filling his chest with slow, but purposeful breaths. Peeling himself off the hull is a careful process, pushing himself off his knees to stand. Trembling fingers nearly poke his own eye as he he scrubs his face. Swallowing thickly he’s more cautious as he takes off the day's clothes and gets into his pajamas. This burn was doing its damndest to get the better of him wasn’t it? 

Not that he’d let it if he could. Dressed for sleep Peter slips into his bunk while keeping an ear out for the others. Had they heard him fall over? Would they investigate? Tension grows in him as moments pass and none of the others open the shutters to check. He stays that way for several minutes, listening with his eyes closed and flat on his back. Fingers curled around the blanket pulled up to his chest. All he catches though is the gentle sounds of living beings moving around a space. 

Pushing out a heavy breath Peter lets himself relax, melting against his bunk, head lolling to the side. He could field questions tomorrow, now though, was time for bed. It takes less time than he’d think before he’s asleep. Body exhausted as he rolls onto his stomach, pillow trapped between his head and arm. 

 

The next morning, Peter groans from the aches clamouring for his attention all over his body. Everything feels stiff from his knees, hips, and shoulders. Even his fingers don’t bend as easily as they should when he splays a hand on his bunk. Someone has opened the shutters during the night and daylight streams in from behind him. Bracing his weight on an elbow he wipes the grit from his eyes, lips pulled in a thin line. God he felt like  _ shit _ . 

Rolling over to sit up he quickly rucks down his shirt from where it’s shimmed up his torso during the night. Silent hopes asking that the blanket at least stayed where it should while he slept. He knows before getting to his feet that he’s alone in the sleeping quarters; sounds flowing unimpeded from the common area. His coffee machine gurgling out a fresh pot over the gentle hum of the stove burners. 

_ Just another morning _ . Peter tells himself, absently lifting up his left sleeve to check his shoulder for bruising. Underneath is a shapeless splotch of blue and yellow, purple dotting sporadically within it. Promising. Covering it again he walks up to the common area. Making a note to check on his burn after breakfast. 

Peter is a few steps from the table w hen the breakfast Drax is making hits his nose. It’s pancakes, maybe some toast and - _ Red-white blur swinging, fire, singed hair, cooking flesh-  _ Peter is stopped dead in his tracks, hand to his mouth as his stomach flips and rolls. He’s- He’s not- He  _ is _ . Backtracking he slips past Gamora (furrowed brow, watching him pass) into the bathroom. Bile in his throat he shuts the door, heaving unproductively twice. It’s all he gets before he’s throwing up last night’s dinner into the toilet. Gagging once nothing else comes up he can feel himself shaking again. Breathing unevenly Peter rests his head on the edge of the toilet. Reaching up and flushing it once he’s sure his stomach has settled back down. 

There’s knocking on the door, Gamora’s concerned voice filtering past it. “Peter?”


	4. Red Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Gamora go shopping, Peter is reminded that she is no fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with chapter 4 y'all! I meant to finish this earlier but the chapter did not want to END. I hope this is at least a little satisfying to all my readers. x3
> 
> Update 5/30: Hey guys! I just got done doing a HUGE rehaul on this chapter. Hoepfully the pacing a lot better then me just pushing these guys from Point A to Point B. The large ones start when Peter says: "I’ll change and then we can go.”  
> Largely this chapter has remained the same but for a lot of extended scenes. I think I added about 3k words after all was said and done?

Gamora, crap. She isn’t easy to fool, but he’ll try. Swallowing past the rancid taste in his mouth Peter shifts to lean his back on the shower’s basin. “I’m good, just, dinner isn’t agreeing with me.” He calls through the door. Face crumpled with the leftover acrid taste. Plus the renewed complaints of his muscles after the effort of heaving. Peter wasn’t sure if he could go back out there, out to that smell. Nausea stirs under his jaw, bunching the muscles there to keep his mouth closed. Like that would keep him from puking again. 

Silence answers him for several long seconds before Gamora’s voice sounds again. “I’m coming in.” Her tone is firm, she isn’t asking for access she’s just coming in. The door slides back into the wall (why didn’t Peter lock it, dammit!) to allow her access. Of course she’s already dressed in her day clothes, hair tied back today in a simple ponytail. She goes right up to Peter and kneels down beside him, her softened expression turned toward him in full affect. 

Peter sighed, tilting his head back, eyes fluttering closed. Clutching both shirt and pants in hand to make sure the former doesn’t ride up and expose the patch. “Gamora, I’m  _ fine. _ ” He repeated, rolling his head to her face. “I probably just got a bad piece.” He tells her, voice softer, gentler as he speaks. 

Gamora arches a brow, clearly still trying to put pieces together from last night. “So you’d be fine if I brought you to the table?” She asks, reaching around and hauling Peter to his feet. 

Peter’s feet shuffle as he’s brought to standing, swallowing again but infinitely glad when he doesn’t (almost!) pass out. He can’t disguise the way he grimaces however, his left leg taking particular offense to being used. The Terran hybrid is quite sure that if he were to pull up his pant leg he’d see a lot of circular bruises if not the whole limb mottled black and blue. Holding up a hand to stave off any questions he steps away from Gamora. Up to the sink where he prepared his toothbrush. “Just, let me brush out my mouth. Tastes like ass right now.” He offers. Waiting long enough to see her oblige with a nod so he can shove his toothbrush in his mouth and set to scrubbing.  

He drags it out as much as he can; brushing longer than he truly needs to. Gamora’s eyes don’t leave his back however so he spits out a glob of foam. Rising out the rest with water cupped from his hands. Dabbing at his mouth with a small towel he feels Gamora’s hand on his back, right between his shoulders. It’s a comfort that he lets himself take in, meeting her gaze his shoulder. 

Her concern is both soft and powerful, like she invested all her remaining humanity into her stare. It warms Peter’s heart right before guilt makes its home in him again. Hiding stuff from one’s crew is stupid, hiding an injury? Potentially suicidal. But he can’t bring himself to let the words leave his lips. Just lets Gamora steer him out into the common area. Where this time he is more prepared for the smells that hit him. This time his stomach makes an aborted flip but he doesn’t feel the need to hack up anymore bile. Taking one of the chairs and looking over at the stove where Drax’s straightforward stare is watching him. 

Unlike Gamora’s, the firmness from Drax is a little unnerving. Don’t get him wrong, he isn’t scared of the big guy but that look could mean a lot of things. Most of them involving killing. 

“You are alright, Peter? That sounded quite unpleasant.” Drax asked in his not-quite-shouting voice. His heavy, tattooed brow dipping down to shadow his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah. Dinner just isn’t sitting well with me.” Peter replied automatically, accepting a mug of milky-brown coffee put in front of him by Gamora. As the words leave his mouth, Peter regrets them. 

Confusion overrides Drax’s concern whilst he starts to put their breakfast onto hot pads. “But, food cannot sit. It is food.” He states finitely. “Are you sure you are well?” 

Pushing down the urge to roll his eyes Peter rests his chin in his hand. Elbow on the table. (Which seems to have been cleared, or at least organized, to allow space.) “It’s a metaphor, it just means it upset my stomach. Probably a one time thing. I’m  _ fine _ . Just like I told Gamora.” He supplies, taking a small sip of his coffee and letting its aroma distract him from the smell of the bacon. Oh man, he’s going to have to eat that. He loves bacon don’t get him wrong, but right now it’s on the bottom of his Foods-I-Want-To-Eat list. His grip on his mug tightens while his free hand rubs at his abdomen. 

The clatter of clay on the table’s surface alerts the crew to Rocket’s arrival; his furry head just reaching over the table before he can adjust the seat. Groot stretching his small branches in the patch of sunlight he’s placed it. It’s obvious Rocket is still waking up but he looks at Peter and dips his head, seemingly to himself. Putting a mug bigger than Peter’s on the table before him; obvious that he debated taking the pot instead. 

“Then we shall dine, celebrate this morning.” Drax decided, already carrying softly steaming food to the table. Filling whatever space had been opened that morning. 

Peter has to clench his free hand shut tight when Drax places the plate laden with bacon in front of him. He eyes it, trying to ignore the smell wafting toward him. A mix of leftover nausea and memories bubbling to the surface. It isn’t Drax’s fault, he can’t blame the guy. It’s just today he would rather have that plate as far from him as possible. He must be pale again because Rocket’s voice cuts across the table.

“Quill, you look like that bacon is about to eat  _ you. _ Sure you aren’t gonna puke again? ‘Cause if you are don’t do it on me.” The raccoon comments, wary eyes latched onto his unofficial leader. 

“That would be stupid. Bacon cannot eat Peter, it has no mouth.” Drax stated while taking his own seat. “But yes, do not puke on us.” He added, bright eyes taking in Peter’s colorless visage. 

“Nice vote of confidence guys.” Peter muttered taking another sip of his drink. Noting Gamora’s silence he looks at her, one brow cocked, “Are you gonna ask me too? I swear, of  _ everyone _ I would only throw up on Rocket. No offense.” He asked, pausing to direct his last couple words at Rocket. 

“Offense taken.” Rocket sniffed, using both hands to take a long pull of his drink. 

Gamora allows herself a small chuckle at that, starting to serve herself breakfast. “Thanks, but if you aren’t well you should go lay down.” She tells Peter. 

“I’m touched, everybody, I swear.” Peter starts, placing a hand over his heart. “But I’m good, believe me, I can take care of myself.” He finishes, purposefully not commenting from Rocket’s snickers from his right. As if to prove it he fishes a piece of bacon from the plate before him, eating the whole piece in several large bites. Eating it isn’t nearly as bad as the smell but his mouth still dries and he has to wash it down with another sip of coffee. 

Raising up both hands he looks around the table. Opening the field for one of them to question his “wellness” again. “See? Just fine.” Except he feels like he might not stomach another piece so well. Even after eating it the taste and stronger hints of the smell sit where the coffee didn’t wash it away. But his challenge goes untaken and that’s fine with him, building up his plate with the pancakes, -what passed for- eggs, and just one strip of bacon. Aside from the earlier incident, this is just another meal shared. A little something they’ve started doing in the mornings, because calling it bonding would be offensive to most of its occupants. Mostly Rocket. Peter is careful how high he raises his shoulder though, doing his best not to lift the hem above his waistband with Rocket so close. 

Breakfast is a quiet affair, the crew of the  _ Milano _ content with the lack of conversation. For Peter, it reminds him of being a kid before his Mom got sick. Shared meals with people he loved, a simple time to bring them together. It’s only as he’s polishing off his plate (he does eat that other piece and it goes down easier than the first) that Peter looks around at the table. “So, we got plans for today?” 

“We need supplies.” Gamora told them, plate in hand as she got to her feet. “Anyone else going to the market?” She asked, rinsing off any scraps from her plate. 

“I don’t know about the market but I’m running out a parts for emergencies.” Rocket commented from over the lip of his mug. 

“You mean you’re running out of stuff to take from the _ Milano _ .” Peter muttered, standing up himself to clear his plate. He catches Rocket grumbling under his breath, intelligible words most likely mocking Peter. “I can lend a hand at the market,  make sure we don’t forget anything.” He directs at Gamora, lingering next to the sink when she takes his plate from his hands. “I, I would have washed that.” Peter stammered, pointing meekly at the plate now in her hands. 

“My hands are already wet, it’s fine.” She told him, glancing at his face. “You’ll be okay to walk around while I run errands?” 

Peter rolled his eyes, groaning melodramatically. “ _ Guys _ . I’m good. Seriously. Just some bad dinner.” He assured them, crossing his arms over his chest. Making sure to meet each of their eyes as their attention focuses on him. Totally not the smell of a food he loves.

“Then I am to remain behind with the plant.” Drax noted, put out at being left to watch Groot/the _ Milano. _

“I am Groot.” Groot cooed, leaning toward Rocket with his whole body. 

“I don’t care, Groot. I can’t carry you around and look serious at the same time.” Rocket laid out, nudging Groot’s pot so when the sun shifted Groot wouldn’t be left in the shadows. “You’re too cute for business.”

“I am  _ Groot _ .” The sapling insisted, sprouting tiny leaves on his shoulders and back. 

“I said no, Groot. You stay with Drax.” Rocket said. Punctuating his words with a tap of the table. 

Groot’s leaves wilted, withdrawing behind small wooden plates. Twisting in his pot to show his back to Rocket. 

“So, that’s settled then.” Peter said, clasping his hands together. “Me and Gamora on grocery duty and Rocket gets more stuff to fill my ship with nukes.” Stepping away from the sink and toward the bunks. “I’ll change and then we can go.” 

Three long strides take him from the common area to the bunks, more specifically to his haphazardly “organized” corner. There he finds his jacket on top of his Clothes-I-Wore-Recently pile. It takes a little more digging before he produces a pair of jeans and a clean(ish) shirt from the mess. Taking notice of his knapsack he pauses, a barely-there-second, and scoops that up too. He takes these into the bathroom where they immediately go onto a small shelf built next to the shower. His current shirt crumpling onto the floor when he takes it off; eyes dipping to the covered brand. Tangled sensations -memories- bubbling under the surface.

Shaking them off, he breaks out the med-kit and sets it on the sink. Peter perches himself on the lip of the sink next to it. His right leg fully extended as he slowly peels away the gauze pad. It comes away dirty but as far as Peter can tell it isn’t showing signs of infection. Small blisters are popping up around the brand (just how hot did they get the damn thing?) and scabs stretch the skin here and there. A few of them are raised and look a little more red around the edges. 

Folding the gauze pad in half to expose the clean side, he presses it to the brand. Nose scrunching when clear fluid seeps from several scabs. He hopes this is supposed to happen. Man, he needs to brush up on how to take of this. If Terran specific journals can’t be found he supposes Xandarian ones will have to do. Twisting to the kit he sifts through one corner. Brushing aside a roll of medical tape, single-packaged band-aids, and finally finding alcohol wipes. Tearing one open he swipes it over the brand. Hissing quietly as it brushes over the cherry-red skin and blisters. 

Tossing the used wipe into the sink he returns to the kit. It takes Peter a long minute before he unearths another pad, pursing his lips when he only sees there are only two left. He’s going to have to get more while he’s out with Gamora. With the condition of the med-kit as is he doubts it’ll raise any red flags.  

Taking out both of the pads he peels one of them open then sticks it over the brand. He can feel the low burning-not-quite-itch from around the brand but he used up the last of their ointment last night. And with his stash in the fridge MIA he’ll deal with the sensation. That taken care of (for the moment) Peter hops down from the sink and puts away the med-kit. Stripping off his pants he winces at the condition of his left leg. It’s covered in round, reddish-purple bruises that run a path wrapping around his leg. 

The edges are a darker, more constant coloring though the largest one looks to be barely bigger than his thumb. Where the rest of the limb was is a less severe case; splotched a sickly-yellow that is dotted with darker colors. He’s just turning all kinds of colors isn’t he? Gentle prodding hurts and he suspects that walking around all day is going to aggravate it a lot. Rubbing a hand over his face he gets dressed quick as he can; sliding his knapsack over his head. Last thing he does before leaving the bathroom is to stow the remaining pad into his knapsack in case they actually do stay out for the whole day. 

“Nice to join us, Quill. Get stuck looking at your own mug?” Rocket comments with laughter in his tone. His usual over-sized gun clamped to his back. 

Passing Drax still at the table he gives him a solid series of pats on the shoulder, snatching up his guns from the edge of the table, too. Peter falls into step beside Gamora, who is already halfway down the ramp by the time he catches up to her. Magnetic clamps adhering to both guns at his hip. “Hey, it takes maintenance to keep his rugged look.” He shoots back at Rocket, running a hand along the thin beard he sported. He’d have to actually trim it before tonight. Which means more time spent in the bathroom.

“Rugged, right.” Rocket agreed, sarcasm evident in his tone. 

“Peter, Rocket, do not start.” Gamora warns, her earlier concern giving way to exasperation at their antics. 

Both Peter and Rocket comply but not before Peter sticks his tongue out at Rocket. So he’s immature, everyone is sometimes. 

Now lit by the light of day, the sprawling -but organized- port city is washed in earthen colors. Browns, both light and dark, make the ground and paved sections blend together. It’s caked around every door, window, and edge. Obscuring the vividly bright colors which nearly match the neon eclipsed in the sun’s light. To get to the market they pass by several quick-service restaurants as well as a few general stores. When Peter is feeling particularly sentimental, he compares them to the gas stations back on Terra, on Earth. 

The closer they get to the market the more noise creeps into the air. Filling it with hoots, hollers, trumpets, and chatter. It’s a place where hagglers thrive in the open-air shops. Dragging down prices as far as they’ll go just to save a couple of units. If the buildings at the port were bright, these shops are positively blinding. Kept strategically clean their bright colors hint at something that’s just out of Peter’s range of visibility. Their contents vary, seemingly without planning as machinery sits right next to sheer layers of shimmering fabric. 

Shop owners flit from one customer to another; politeness on their tongues, greed lighting their eyes. Neither Peter nor Gamora react with more than a look when Rocket sees something at the first stall of machinery they pass and splits from their trio. Light glints off of freshly-cleaned metal, taken in by spools of wire wrapped in colored plastic. Actual, manufactured parts sit under glass cubes. A lot of useful stuff in the right hands. 

What catches their attention (Gamora’s specifically) is a stand that looks duller than the others. The crazy neon calmed to something merely eye-straining instead of eye-hurting. There is an air of formality around it that doesn’t exist around the other stands. Neatly piled products clearly labeled with names and prices. Unlike the other shop owners, this one sits primly in a chair. Their skin a fluorescent orange paired with an inconsistent pebbled texture. They’re humanoid but the eyes feel too flat, too impersonal to Peter. Large and vibrantly purple, they see Gamora’s interest in the stand. Straightening up an inch, too-many fingered hands folding on the table. 

Once they’re close enough to the stall to be heard Peter shifts to stand behind Gamora’s shoulder. They all have reputations, especially after Ronan’s defeat, but Gamora’s is more well-known and more fearsome. Less likely to get gypped. No longer having a record doesn’t erase what made it. A wave of tension rolls through Peter’s shoulders at the thought, hands wandering to his hips. His palm brushing the brand hidden beneath shirt and bandage. He forces himself to relax before she can notice even though her eyes are only on the shopkeeper. 

“Welcome, what service can I do for you?” The shopkeeper asked, respectful, business-like. 

Gamora’s eyes flickered over the items before her- mostly detailing different packages rather than multiple products. Which would make sense, given that this shop offered emergency rations. Which the crew of the  _ Milano _ had been down to eating until two cycles ago. Breakfast this morning had actually been the first cooked meal in some time. Saving the galaxy didn’t translate into a backlog of jobs as it turns out. Not when you’re a group of ex-cons. Quiet lapses between them as Gamora considers their options. Peter can see the barest nod she makes to herself, so small a movement he doubted the shopkeep noticed. 

“Two shipments of your Beta package to docking station eight, for the ship the  _ Milano _ . We have someone on the ship to receive it.” She informs the shopkeep, mimicking their tone. Pointing to the option to prevent any confusion in the general noise of the market. 

That gets them near a hundred pounds of self-preserving meals, he notes. It’s a lot more than he ever had to purchase when he lived on his own. The four of them could go through food pretty quick, excluding Groot. Peter sometimes wondered what Groot ate, if anything. Mauling over his thoughts he just catches it when Gamora tells the shopkeeper the account to charge the purchase to. It isn’t his or hers, but one the crew recently decided to get. A shared one for purchases specific to the  _ Milano _ and them living on it. Getting everyone to agree had been hair-pulling frustration but in the end they’d came together. 

Including but not limited to parts bought for  _ repairs _ (that distinction had been like pulling teeth from Rocket), maintenance, speciality equipment for jobs, food… Most of their earnings went into it basically. Portions went into their personal accounts but largely it went to the  _ Milano’s _ needs.  

Business concluded Peter and Gamora pull away back into the throng of folks filling the market. Feet carrying them forward they soon come to a section whose sugary smells stand out even through the crowd. Several stands with fruit (at least Peter thinks it’s fruit) and vegetables linger close together. Enticing onlookers to come by and partake in their wares. Most of the fare is large, rounded shapes in similarly neon colors that the rest of the town is so fond of. The smallest piece Peter sees looks like it was the same size as his head. 

He taps Gamora’s arm, a grin twisting up one side of his mouth as he points out the fruit stands. It won’t stay fresh long, they both know that, but Peter grew up being an adventurous eater. With the nomadic style of life the Ravagers led the chance to try anything that wasn’t a bland block of nutrition was always exciting. “Wanna try one with me?” He asked, already turning his body toward the stands. 

Gamora followed his gesture, tilting her head gently. Eyes roving over the multi-colored fruit before they went back to Peter’s face. His bright expression touching something she refused to look at closer. “I will look, but it doesn’t appeal to me.” She told him. The barest of smiles touching her face. Disturbing the carefully crafted facade she held in public. 

Peter shrugs one shoulder at her response, knowing realistically that Terrans (at least himself) had the ability to eat just anything considered “food.” To this day he hadn’t encountered a food he couldn’t eat. At least when it’s been prepared correctly. “One day Gamora, I’ll get you to try something.” He commented, hands finding his front pockets as they wandered over to the fruit stand. This one bookended by a pair of hobbyist stands boasting swaths of fabric or wood streaked with neon colors. Peter was starting to feel like he needed sunglasses for this planet, all of the neon it housed. 

Walking up to the stand the sweet smells grow in intensity; filling his nose and bringing up a childlike desire for candy or soda. Something he hadn’t had those in over two decades. Not like they had been on Terra. Flashing a grin at the shop owner he turned his eyes down to the food. Aware of Gamora gently rolling one of the smaller ones with the tips of her fingers. 

He simply picked up one of the larger fruits, testing the weight in his hands. It’s lighter than he’d thought it’d be but he can feel the super-fine hairs that cover its flesh. Soft dimples brush over his palms despite not being high enough to easily see. It isn’t the strangest fruit he’s ever seen. Exchanging it for another of similar size, he feels the difference in firmness. This one is a little softer but the dimples more pronounced. Brows lifting slightly he juggles the first one to hold both in his hands. Weighing the fruits he angles his head toward Gamora. 

She’s stopped feigning her interest, standing by Peter with her arms lightly crossed before her. Her eyes track over the fruit but he isn’t sure she’s really looking at them. Clearing his throat loud enough for her to hear he holds up the two pieces. Smiling broad enough to show teeth. “Hey, know how to tell if these are ripe?” He asks jovially. 

Gamora angles herself to face him, arms unfolding to take both pieces into her own hands. Consideration softens the hard line of her brow. Her hands putting gentle pressure on the fruit. Only after several long seconds does Gamora reach out and place the firmer of the two fruits back into Peter’s hands. Laying the second back onto the stand. “That one is.” She told him simply. 

He sees her actions, sees the ones she doesn’t do. Even as he cradles the fruit in his hands and gets the shopkeeper’s attention. Mind churning while he pays. Finding himself comparing the sides of Gamora he saw this morning and business-like Gamora he sees beside him. The crafted persona she holds like a shield. Shields herself with it like he whips out words, worms his way out of trouble when he can. Sometimes he wonders if she knows how to bring it down. Other times he recalls stolen moments through music, a hesitant two-step to his mother’s favorites. But he also recalls her denial, recalls the changed conversations he tries to start. Then he wonders if she even knows she has it up at all. 

A little unspoken thing. 

Well, maybe not so little. Peter knows he likes her, likes her more intensely than any previous partner. He tries to tell her, to convince her, but she hears none of it.

Tucking the fruit under one arm he pushes those thoughts aside and steps back from the stand. “If you change your mind you’re always welcome to try later.” He says, still smiling. Gamora rolls her eyes, growing used to Peter’s antics the longer they stay as the Guardians. Five individuals brought together by circumstances and kept together by battle bonds. 

The crowd has grown thick enough that Peter and Gamora have to walk nearly shoulder to shoulder to avoid drifting apart from the other. Even with as wide as the lane is, bodies flood it from one end to the other. Noise rumbling through the air, at times louder than the shopkeepers themselves. They pass by more stands housing mechanical parts or incomplete builds that Rocket would be all over. Both don’t pay these stands much attention until they get closer to a crossings between buildings. Light reflecting off of shining surfaces and curves. The heavy scent of metal coating Peter’s tongue as their attention turns towards the light. Squinting lightly against the glare he glances over the display. 

Weapons, large and small, full sized and compacted, hang suspended on racks. Pristine despite the overwhelming dust claiming the planet. Laid out on the table is an assortment of supplies meant for cleaning, repairing, and upgrades. A shared look, eyes briefly meeting, before both Peter and Gamora approach the stand. Its keeper had wide features but forward facing eyes, a lisp to their speech that even the translator couldn’t completely get rid of. Scales reveal themselves in the light shone around the shop. Blendings of orange, black, white, and yellow giving them a rather camouflaged feel. 

Eyes, slitted and a predatory yellow, flick toward the pair as they come up to the stand. Their current conversation unbroken except for a there-then-gone pause. A moment taken for recognition. Whether it be for fame or infamy was made to be seen. 

There isn’t much looking to be had at this stand, simply sorting through the merchandise for their needs. A new sharpener for Drax and his coveted knives, oil both for their weapons but also smaller appliances on the  _ Milano _ , fresh batteries and ammunition to keep them defended. It all makes a neat pile before the pair. More than could be carried comfortably by hand for sure. It’s as they are debating between brands -”I’ve had good results in the past,” “I’d rather go for better quality, Peter.”- that the shopkeeper finishes their business with the customer before them. 

“Indeed, dear Guardians, most prefer the one your feminine company chooses. Do you have need of anything else at my station?” The shopkeeper posed, four-fingered hands folded just below their chest. Despite the lisp their voice is smooth, carefully friendly. 

Peter turns his gaze up to the shopkeep, placing the container in his hand back on the table. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickling even as Peter shoves down the gentle stir of fear. Lots of people have dry voices he reminds himself, feeling his face arrange itself into an open smile. A look that has disarmed a lot of folks in the past. He senses Gamora’s eyes on him, intent and probably more than a little curious. Making the tension in his shoulders (when did that get there?) release and straightening up a little. “I think we’ve got all we need, actually. Unless you see anything, Gamora.” He told the shopkeep, looking Gamora full on. He catches the studious look on her face before she in turn faces the shopkeep. 

“No, this will be all. Thank you.” Gamora told them, tone indifferent. Once more numbers are given, and with their purchases too small to be considered to delivery they bag them into sacks of synthetic material. Handles fit into their palms as they take the sacks, moving together to slip into the flow of foot traffic. The deeper they travel in the market the more Peter notices the stands becoming more specialized. Actual buildings of trade or business cropping up instead of the fluorescent stands. Lights and absurdly bright colors still adorn the buildings but on the larger surfaces it doesn’t feel as intense. The more buildings he sees he softer the crowd becomes, filtering away from the open street. 

Honestly it takes Peter by some surprise that it’s this deep in the market that he finally sees a shop boasting the universal sign for medical needs: A white asterisk. Patting Gamora’s shoulder he crossed behind her to the store. “We should probably restock while we’re here, it’d be bad if we run into trouble.” Peter told her, looking over his shoulder as she huffed but tracked after him. 

“There is no ‘if’, Peter. Trouble simply finds us.” She replied. Pushing open the door to allow herself and Peter entry. 

Shrugging Peter stepped inside, hit by a cool waft of air and a dimness. “True enough.” He mused under his breath. While not dark, the store wasn’t that brightly lit. Most of the light flooding in through windows or shed from small lamps set on shelves. Plates clearly label where materials are in blocky letters, organized down to the glass jars littering the tables. Peter lets Gamora investigate the section close to the door as he heads straight to the back wall, toward the corner. It’s a section headlined for sterilized bandages and patches. 

Shifting the bag he held to the hand holding the fruit he picks up two of the smaller cases of gauze pads similar in size to the one he had in his knapsack. He hopes it’s enough and after a moment of debate he piles a third pack into the crook of his arm. That taken care of he rotates until he finds a wall positively overflowing with all sorts of gels, ointments, powders, salves, and even some herbs and tonics. 

It’s more than he expected out of the shop but he’ll take it for what it’s worth. Careful not to dump the load in his arms he moves closer to the counter, grabbing both a tube and a small jar. One for the kit, one for the fridge. Honestly, the jar is more for gentler sunburns whenever they happen. When one spends most of their time in space burns are inevitable. Especially when he was already kind of pale. 

He glances over the rest of the wall, frowning lightly in consideration. From his previous digging he’s fairly sure that they have most everything they need in case of an emergency. None of them are really doctors but field medicine is something they’re familiar with. After a moment he turns from the wall to the counter. Gamora, he notes, is still by the entrance. Watching him maybe a little too closely than he’d like.

A paranoid voice in the back of his head wonders if she knows. Edges of panic and shame making him hedgy before he gets a handle on himself. If Gamora thought he was hiding something dangerous, she’d confront him. It isn’t her style to avoid an issue. Not since he’s known her, anyway. 

Peter keeps the transaction short, keeping his body language open and his tone friendly. By now it’s reflex during business. Making enemies is a bad habit he tries to keep under control. (Not well enough, however.) It’s another bag added to his load when he steps up to Gamora and she leads him back out into the brightness of midday. 

This planet in particular has a rather long night cycle but glancing at the lengthening shadows he still knows that they’ve been meandering for a while. With how long they’ve been out Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Rocket hadn’t already returned to the ship without waiting for them to be done. Peter himself turned toward the docks himself to leave when Gamora puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m getting hungry, I know there’s a street fair a few roads over. Are you?” Gamora posed, her dark eyes seeking out his intently. 

Woah. Peter swallows minutely, heart thundering suddenly in his chest. He’s only caught up for a moment before words find him again. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’m starving.” He agrees hastily.Truthfully, he  _ is _ hungry. If they hadn’t come to this planet for  _ barbeque _ Peter might have some spark of hope for himself. 

It’s one of the more organized port towns Peter’s been to so it doesn’t take long before the pair of them are coming up to the food-vendors. Various smells fill the air, ranging from sweet desserts to crisp fruits to, of course, cooking meat ( _ His side, singed hair, the smell curling in the air). _ Heated pools of oil hissing and popping with fried food, open-faced grills laden with skewers, flat slabs of metal cooking steaks of every cut and size. Overall it’s overwhelming and already Peter can feel his stomach turning. It’s all too soon but he holds back the urge to gag. Tightening his grip on the bags in his hands while Gamora leads them through the crowd. 

She bypasses the sweet-selling vendors and those offering lighter options to the heart of the street. Visibly unperturbed when they leave the sweet scents behind. 

Peter finds his jaw clenching shut the closer they get to the meat section. His stomach rebelling the further they go into it. Each time a fresh piece of meat hits a grill near them has him flinching. ( _ White-hot pain, body bowing.) _ If didn’t have his hands loaded down he’s sure he would have to fight to keep from touching the brand protectively. Heavy burps causing him to bring a hand to his mouth. Oh this is not good. He is lasting longer than breakfast but much longer and he doesn’t really have a choice. Peter catches Gamora looking over her shoulder at him a few times and knows he misses a lot more. 

What breaks him is when she stops in front of a stall, eyeing at the vendor flips several skewers of purple-tinted meat. A light heave catches Peter by surprise, muscles around his stomach contracting abortively, and he knows he’s pushed it. Inhaling through his mouth he turns to Gamora, dumping his own bags into her arms, “Sorry, just, be ri-” Another heave, “right back.” Shock stuns her while Peter cuts in between two stalls to a thin alley. He doesn’t leave the smells nor the sounds behind but he isn’t in full view before leaning over and emptying his stomach. Retching horribly with one arm braced on the wall. It’s been awhile since breakfast so he doesn’t bring up much, only making the last few heaves burn in his throat. Hands shaking despite being closed tight and Peter knows he has puke on his shoes. Eyes shut while his body recovers.

Bringing up as much saliva as he can Peter spits the taste out of his mouth. What he can anyway. Wiping his mouth afterward on the sleeve of his jacket. Taking great gulps of air through his mouth so he tamp down on the memories of last night surging to the front of his mind. “Shit.” He says weakly, putting most of his weight on the wall next to him. Is this going to happen every time now? ‘Cause if it is Peter would rather not be able to smell. 

A hand on his shoulder has Peter jumping in his skin, shoving his back against the wall to find… Gamora. 

“It’s not food poisoning, is it?” She asks, their supplies placed on the ground beside her but outside of the pool of sick. Peter has a funny feeling she’s only asking because it’s  _ nice. _

Blowing out a harsh breath Peter relaxes against the wall, lifting his hands to rub at his face. He can’t cry wolf twice. “It’s- It- No. It’s not.” He drags out, shooting a glance at the noisy street before tugging his shirt out of his pants. Lifting enough of the material to bare his right side and the bandage to her. He tries not to flinch but doesn’t quite manage it when her fingers gently pull the pad away from his skin. 

Her entire body goes deathly still, a low burn of fury behind her eyes. “This is-” She starts, face whipping to Peter’s when he interrupts,

“A brand. I know.” Peter moves her hand away, pressing the pad back into place so he can tuck his shirt back into his pants. He can’t look her in the face, preferring to look at his puke-splattered shoes instead. 

“We are-” 

“ _ Not _ telling the others.” Peter cuts her off again, lips pursed, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Why not? You could not even hide that for a day, Peter!” Gamora snapped, gesturing to his side sharply. “It’s a stupid, prideful thing to do.” 

“Then count me stupid and prideful, Gamora.” Peter shot back, finally lifting his eyes to her face. Taking in all of the elegant, sharp lines drawing tight on her face in her anger. His own face set with determination and wounded pride. “I’m going to take care of it and they do  _ not _ have to know.” His makes his tone as final as he can, tilting his chin up in his stubbornness. 

Gamora closes her eyes, taking calming breaths in the face of Peter’s childishness. “It’d be stupider to fight you, you stubborn idiot. But if it gets  _ any _ worse. I will be telling everyone.” She told him, stepping into his space and jabbing a finger into his sternum. “Understood?”

The fight drains from Peter, arms falling to his sides. “Yeah, understood.” 


	5. 8 Hours (or lack thereof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truths are told, others remain hidden, and Nova Prime does not care for your sleep schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! :D Life and work just decided to drop by and remind me that they do, in fact, exist so my writing time has been somewhat limited. But here is another chapter (though not much happens) and if you would like to, I did a HUGE edit for chapter four that added three thousand words. Yup. A whole new 3k to read if you so wish.

Hefting out a sigh Peter lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. “You weren’t wanting anything from the fair were you?” He probes, letting himself deflate against the wall. 

A small apologetic smile touches Gamora’s face for a brief moment before she reaches down to pick up their bags. “No, but breakfast was kind of telling. Normally we’re trying to keep the plate away from you.” She explains, shifting so Peter can peel himself from the wall without stepping in sick. “Then last night Rocket wasn’t wrong, you were quite pale. You also looked like a cornered animal, ready to fight even if it meant losing.” Gamora supplied.

Peter a hand through his hair, toeing some of the mess off his boots in the buildup of dust and dirt. He knew he’d looked pretty shit-tastic last night but if Gamora noticed that much… “The others gonna trick me too? Or is it just you?” He said waspishly. More than a little defensive at the prospect of being  _ lured  _ into telling the truth. They might not have been together all that long, but he trusted them to trust  _ him. _

Gamora barely paused when Peter started to walk further into the alley, away from the street fair. Lingering a step behind him as she spoke, “The others agreed to let me find out. You and Rocket bicker too much, Drax has no use for subtlety, and only Rocket understands Groot.” 

Peter swore softly, but didn’t try to hold onto his anger at the rest of the Guardians. As much as it felt like the sting of betrayal he knew they had only been worried. It meant, in a roundabout way, that they cared. Gamora’s honesty is really what makes it hurt the most. Logically she made sense. It had probably been decided the night before, too. 

Hiking his shoulders up to his ears he held out both hands. “Now you know and now you can tell them that it’s nothing. Bad dinner.” He finished, trailing off the last couple words. Hands finding his pockets while Gamora takes two long strides to draw even with him. 

“It’ll hold them off, at least. Eventually Peter, they will know.” Gamora stated, letting their shoulders brush before they came out on the other side of the alley. Maneuvering the load in her hands and arms she passes the fruit back to Peter to hold. “Don’t fool yourself forever.” 

Peter takes the fruit in both hands, fingers running over the surface of it. “But they’ll know on my terms. When I’m ready to tell them.” He told her, voice softening. Cool shame clinging to the edges of his belly at the thought of the brand. It seemed the most he tried to leave the past behind him the more it stuck around. Some parts he was glad for -his mother’s cassette- but this one… he couldn’t have gone without. 

Gamora doesn’t comment on his choice of words but doesn’t try to leave him behind on the way back to the  _ Milano _ either. For the moment she’ll go along with him. Make sure that their idiot of a captain doesn’t get himself offed because of selfish pride. 

After that however, the walk is quiet; the sun setting at a startling pace now that it has begun its descent. Actual neon pulses to life with the lengthening of shadows. Enticing the night life out of the lingering crowds, promising fun times, good drinks, and pleasant company. Both ignore the signs, standing close together with gazes forward but unfocused. It isn’t hard to find the docks, nor the  _ Milano _ in her brilliant colors of blue and orange, but keeping an eye out for unusual motion is a skill learned. After last night Peter is glad to simply head back to his ship, his home. Where safety is (normally) guaranteed and where his small box of memoirs stays close to his bunk.

He’s inclined to reach out, grab one of Gamora’s hands. He doesn’t, mostly because he likes his teeth where they are,  _ thank you _ . Gamora is… different when it comes to touch and he’s learning to read when it’s okay to reach out. Coaxing her dance so far has brought the most positive results. Minus the one time he tried to kiss her and then had a knife to his throat. Love was love he supposed. 

When they reach the ramp of the  _ Milano _ night has properly fallen. A great expanse of black sky despite the light pollution blocking out the stars. As he has the open hand, Peter is the one to open the hatch. Stepping inside again their shoulders touch, though Peter thinks it’s more an accident this time than on purpose. Like he suspected though Rocket is buzzing around the small kitchenette, munching on what Peter think is that mornings leftovers. Drax can be seen off to the side of the table. Flicking through something on the holo-screen. Maybe looking for another job?

“We’re back guys, miss anything?” Peter calls into the space, taking the two bags that Gamora hands him. A quick peek inside shows the medical supplies plus some of the weapon maintenance items they bought. 

Drax turns away from the holo-screen, silver-colored eyes ghosting over the small collection of bags even as he answers. “No. Nothing. Smaller Groot does nothing but sit in the sun. Rocket has made no new weapons nor plans to destroy something else.” The large man sounds bored, even disappointed that no destruction was at hand. 

“Sounds like oodles of fun, Drax. Did the rations get here?” Peter commented, placing the fruit on a spare place on the table plus the bag holding the oils and blade sharpener. Stopping at the edge of the common area to listen. 

“It was not fun. I do not know why you would think it was. But yes, we did receive rations. They are in storage.” Drax confirmed. Moving past his confusion to shift around the bag Peter left on the table.

“That was sarcasm, it’s like a metaphor.” Peter explained patiently, somehow still getting used to the literal nature of Drax’s species. Answer received, he dips into the bathroom (which is quickly becoming a very familiar space) and once more sets the kit on the lip of the sink. The bag goes into the bowl so he can pull out the packages of gauze pads. Popping open the packages so he can stick the sealed pads into the kit for later use. Three boxes go into the compactor then the tube is tucked into a corner of the kit. He’s tempted to change the pad now, apply the ointment, but it doesn’t feel any different then this morning. (It doesn’t really feel like much at all.)

Ditching the bag into the compactor as well he rejoins the others in the common area. The small jar of ointment cupped in his hand. Moving around the table to collect the fruit after depositing the jar in the fridge. Listening absently as Gamora wraps up putting away or handing out their smaller purchases. Shifting aside what he assumes is one of Rocket’s purchases so he can access the sharp knives and a surface to cut the fruit on. 

Rocket sits on his haunches on the counter, eyeing Peter critically as he finishes whatever meal he pieced together. The raccoon’s sharp gaze flicking down to the fruit in Peter’s hands. “What did you pick up this time, Quill? Something toxic?” 

Peter doesn’t look up from cutting the fruit, careful to avoid getting near his fingers. Shrugging one shoulder as he sliced through one end. “Not sure, I forgot to ask, but it’s gotta be edible to someone.” He told Rocket offhandedly. “Smells real sweet though.” 

“You’re crazy Quill. Crazy.” Rocket said, using it as much as a statement as a moment of wonder. Turning to Gamora and Drax, Rocket nodded his head toward Peter. “If Peter dies tonight I get all his units.  _ All _ of them.” 

Drax nodded solemnly, already accepting that Peter may or may not be ingesting something toxic to Terrans. “I believe Gamora should have them. She is less likely to waste them.” His piece said, Drax turned the new blade sharpener in his large hands. Rotating it as he inspected the mechanics. 

“If they should do anywhere, his units should go toward the ship’s funds.” Gamora argued, hands stilling on trying to sort out the table to return Rocket’s look. 

“Already called dibs, they’re mine.” Rocket sniffed, returning his attention to Peter. 

Peter just rolled his eyes as they talked behind him. Uneven slices making a sloppy pile on the cutting board. The flesh on the inside a vibrant shade of pink with milky-white juices seeps with every cut. Large, rounded seeds are a notable black but make little resistance to the knife. “So when I live, I’ll be keeping my units. The rest of you won’t have to fight over where they do go.” 

“I am Groot.” Groot chirps from the sink, the soil of his pot decently damp. Probably freshly watered. 

Rocket curled his lip back from sharp teeth, “Of course you take his side. Stupid Humie.” Rocket grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. 

As if an unofficial calling, the small conversation drifts to quiet. A slow day leaving little to talk about. Peter finishes slicing up the fruit, placing a good two-thirds of it in a reusable container and into the fridge. The remainder he picks at from the cutting board, leaning back on the counter. It tastes as sweet as it smells, though it lacks the sharp tang of citrus he’d been secretly hoping for. Having thrown up twice that day already, he takes it slow with the fruit. From taste alone he’s ninety percent sure it won’t nab him in his sleep. Plus his stomach isn’t having an immediate reaction either. A nice and tasty adventure. 

Quiet evenings aren’t uncommon on the  _ Milano _ but this one is particularly calm. Peter suspects that Drax, Rocket, and Groot are waiting for him to head to bed so that they can ask Gamora what’s up with their captain. So he’ll oblige them. Stepping from the counter he shifts Groot’s pot out of the sink to instead rinse off both sharp knife and board. He doubts that insects will try to get into his ship but it’s just better to rinse them off anyway. 

Stashing the sharp knife behind the faucet he dries his hands on his shirt. Departing from the kitchen and into the bunks Peter removes a clean set of sleepwear from his drawers. For the fourth time that day he dips into the bathroom. At least it gives him a chance to change the bandage. Flicking the lock on so that no one can come in this time. 

Peter does partake of the facilities  _ actual _ purpose before changing pants and ditching his shirt and jacket on the floor. Peeling off the gauze pad he winces slightly, parts still sticking to his skin. Maybe plucking out a hair or two. Looking at it this time it still looks  _ very  _ red and irritated, the small blisters tiny white marks amid all the red. The “R” is also a stark white. Some of the scabbed edges are an unappealing brown. Repeating what he did this morning, he folds the pad in half. Carefully dabbing around the scabs, lips thinning at the continued presence of the clear fluid. He doubts it means anything bad but he’ll have to watch out for any buildup for sure. It’ll need to breath too at some point. When that’ll be he isn’t sure. He can’t exactly sit in the bathroom for hours without  _ someone _ noticing.

Scrubbing at his eyes with his unburdened hand he sighs. He’ll cross the bridge when he gets to it. 

Removing the med kit he wedges it between his left hip and the wall, popping it open to grab both ointment and another pad. Unscrewing the cap on the ointment he gets a decent amount on his fingers, covering all the red and even a little around it. The irritation he’d been putting out of his mind all day starts to fade nearly on contact. Peter relaxes the unknown tension he held, suddenly glad the brand itself doesn’t hurt. 

Ripping open the pad he covers the burn, trash ditched into the sink until he can pitch it into the compactor. Tucking the ointment back into the kit he snaps it shut. Putting the kit away so he can slip on one of his larger night shirts. Hopefully this will be less likely to ride up during the night. This shirt also helps to disguise the small bump of the pad. Gathering up the day’s clothes he tucks them under one arm, taking a moment to dispose of the newly-created trash. 

He hovers in the bathroom for a moment, eyes flicking to the mirror. What does he still look like that has his crew that worried about him? Pinching his lip between his teeth he steps in front of the mirror to check. 

What he sees is an even paler color than normal, bruise-like colors developing under his eyes. Eyes that even he can see the sharpness, the wariness, in them. His hair has an air of disarray to it despite being  _ maybe _ two or three inches long at the most. A tiredness had started to drag on him -nevermind he’s been awake longer on shorter sleep- so he knows he slept poorly. 

A heavy breath gusts from Peter’s chest, head falling forward into his palms. Fingertips rubbing at his eyes _. At least the outside mirrors the inside, _ he muses to himself. Albeit bitterly. Well, maybe he’ll sleep better tonight and eat more than fruit tomorrow. They’ll be leaving the docks tomorrow as well, with their business concluded here. Putting distance between him and this planet should help too. He thinks it will anyway. 

Unlocking and stepping out of the bathroom he goes to his bunk without fanfare. Dumping the clothes under his arm onto his pile of Things-to-Wash so he can lay down on his bunk. Reaching up automatically to the radio set installed there and pressing play. Dipping the volume so it doesn’t quite fill the whole ship. Pulling his blanket up to his chest he rolls so his back is facing outward. Trapping the pillow between his face and his arm. Falling asleep is easier than Peter thought it’d be, with crew near and familiar tracks playing. 

His crew wants to talk, they can talk. 

 

Next time Peter blinks open his eyes the interior of the  _ Milano _ is still dark. Groaning softly he scrubs the sleep from his eyes, pushing himself up with one arm. It doesn’t feel like the aftermath of a bad dream and he can hear the snores and steady breaths of everyone around him. Groot’s thin, twiggy fingers rasping against each other in sleep. Looking around even as his adjust to the night-time lights just barely lit along the ceiling and ladder he frowns.

The holo-panel is on. 

Peeling his blanket off of him he quietly slips from his bunk. Near-silent feet padding over to the console, still ringing, to answer the call. Blinking sluggishly as he takes in the not-a-hair-out-of-place demeanor of Nova Prime. Groaning again Peter lowers himself into a chair, leaning back. “What’s up?” Screw eloquence right now. 

Stern faced and clearly more awake than Peter, Nova Prime looks him over. “I have a job, provided you are not busy.” Prim, proper. 

Stifling a yawn Peter shook his head. “Uh, nope. Just finished one actually. What is it?” 

“We here at Nova Corporation need a high-priority item retrieved. It is not a weapon per se, but it does contain much cultural importance. It has taken us many cycles to relocate it. Unfortunately, it is out of our jurisdiction. We need you and your team to get it back.” Nova Prime relayed, an air of disapproval at Peter’s demeanor apparent even through the call. 

_ At least she’s to the point.  _ Peter thinks sourly but shows a lazy grin to Nova Prime. “Sounds like an in-and-out kind of job. You paying?” He shouldn’t have to ask but the galaxy runs on units. 

Peter likes to think she’s rolling her eyes when Nova Prime answers, “Of course. 40,000 units to split between yourselves.” 

Knowing what he does about Nova, Peter knows this number is a load of crap, but he’s tired down to his bones. His apparent restless sleep the night before and being disturbed tonight really kills the want to haggle for a higher pay-out. Yes, that had recently finished a job and weren’t  _ hurting _ for units at the moment. It was just less than ten thousand for each of them when it was all said and done. He’s half tempted to wake-up Rocket and let Nova Prime deal with him. Puffing out his cheeks with a breath Peter’s hand hovers toward the console. “Send me co-ordinates and a picture, we’ll be on it tomorrow.” He tells her, ending the call. 

Again his eyes have to adjust when the holo-screen turns off. Weariness tugs at Peter but he hefts himself out of the chair. Navigating in the near-dark to the ladder up to the cockpit. Feeling out the familiar rungs he climbs up them with many years of practice. Allowing tired feet to lead him to the nose of the  _ Milano _ . 

Sore, tired, and barely-awake he folds himself into the driver’s seat. Legs pulled up to his chest with his shins pressed into the armrest. It hurts something awful on his left leg but he’s too tired to care. Simply letting himself curl up against familiar leather and the repeating track of his mother’s tape just barely drifting up from the floor below. 

He’s asleep before he knows it. 


	6. Pop That Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Gamora have a spat and Rocket makes of it what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter where not much goes on, but I got plans for the next one and I'm hoping to wrap this up within the next five or so chapters.

Shake. “Peter.” Shake, shake. “ _ Peter! _ ” 

Peter groaned, refusing to open his eyes as someone continued to shake his shoulder. “Five more minutes.” He slurred, reaching up to paw at the hand on his shoulder. His hand is caught, rewarding him with another shake.

“Wake up now, Peter.” The voice is female, sharp with demands.

“Is the  _ Milano _ on fire?” He asked sleepily, shifting to the echo of sore muscles and a pounding in his shins. Freeing up a hand to dig at the corners of his eyes. Peeling them open and looking up at Gamora. 

“No, but it does make people worry when someone isn’t in their bed.” She answered, releasing his hand and folding her arms. Scorn lacing her tone to match the small frown on her face. 

Bracing his hands on either arm rest he climbs out of the chair, scrunching up his nose as he gets to standing. Sleeping curled up in his chair didn’t leave him as rested as he might have hoped. Various joints are stiff, his left side raging complaints once more. Yawning behind a hand Peter leans forward to the main console of the  _ Milano _ , idly flicking open a screen. “Sorry, just kind of wandered up here during the night. Got woken up by Nova Prime herself.” He apologized, his eyes still taking a moment to focus after waking. Blinking to bring a series of numbers into clarity before him. “She’s got a job for us, simple retrieval.”

Gamora doesn’t release her stance but she turns to the screen herself. Quickly taking in the details they had received the night before. It’s when her eyes land on their destination that she turns to Peter. Hands shifting to her hips, shoulders rolling back, and a steely look in her eyes. “You’re benched for this mission.” 

Peter turned his face toward her, brows knitting together. “What? No I’m not, I’ve done stuff like this plenty of times.” He protested, rising to his full height. 

“ _ I _ am benching you, Peter. I will play along with your idiotic charade but I will not let you go on that planet.” She shot right back, her gaze only getting harder when he put his eyes inches above her own. “You have an open wound.”

Peter shies back minutely, his defensiveness returning at her words. “We’ll wrap it up real tight then. I will not stay behind because of some giant swamp of a planet.” 

Gamora drew closer to Peter, leaving bare inches between them. Tilting her face back to look him full on. “I told you, it gets worse I tell them. You go on this mission it  _ will  _ get worse.” She hissed.

Peter’s face twisted in his indignation, opening his mouth to reply. Until he was beaten to the punch.

“This a bad time? I can really come back later.” Rocket’s voice came from the ladder, the raccoon grinning with laughter in his tone. “Let you two finish.” 

Both Peter and Gamora glanced down, taking in their closeness. Gamora’s palm then covered half of Peter’s face as she pushed it into the windshield, whipping around to face Rocket. “We got a job, go tell Drax Peter didn’t leave the ship.” She stated, two heavy breaths leaving her before her calm returned. She watches Rocket snicker as he ducks back down to the main level, giving him several extra seconds before rounding on Peter. “This is  _ not  _ over. You will stay behind.” 

Peter glared at Gamora as best he could, arguing, “This is over and I  _ will  _ go!” Not that half of his words came out clearly, with his face pressed to the windshield like that. 

Removing her hand, Gamora stepped back. Shaking her head, one hand braced on her forehead the other back on her hip. “You are  _ the _ biggest idiot, Peter. Why do you insist on going?” She asked, arms folded across her chest. A glint of steel remains in her eyes but yesterday’s concern shines in her face. 

Peter pulled back from the window, stepping away until he was over an arm’s length away. “What would you tell the others if I stayed behind? What about our reputation to the galaxy? I can’t just be  _ benched _ and have no one notice that I’m not there.” He told her, his own arms folded. Resolute. 

Gamora breathed out in one long stream, lowering her arms. There was an ounce of logic to his defense, if not much more. None of the others would just let it slide if she told them Peter was staying behind because she said so. But she promised to not tell them of the brand, so she could not out his currently-healing wound either. Should news of Peter “skipping out” on a mission would cause ripples in the galaxy that had just settled after the war on Xandar. While they had all been touched by the Infinity Stone, Peter had been the first to hold it, the first to feel its power. It had been a rather large point the various presses addressed when covering the aftermath of the war. To suddenly, without adequate reason, have Peter be gone during a mission… That would certainly put a nice-sized dent into their reputation as a group. 

“If I cannot stop you then be prepared for what happens afterward, Peter.” Gamora finally said, having let a soft quiet fall between them. She does not like bowing to his argument but no solution sits readily at hand to stop him. Short of falling ill within the next few days there is little she can claim against him to the others. Her footsteps are silent even on the metal floors of the  _ Milano _ when she descends to the lower deck.

Peter sighed heavily, lifting up both hands to rub at his face. He feels bad, throwing those in her face like that. Seeing her consent even a modicum of defeat was harder than he expected it to be. Still, they had a duty to the galaxy. 

Unspoken rules in all that. 

It’s a good ten seconds he spends alone in the cockpit, compiling his emotions into something a little more organized.  Then it’s a quick slide down the rungs and two long strides to the table. Rocket, Drax, Groot, and Gamora are there, reading over the message Nova Prime sent them. Rocket has a slight sneer curling his lip, no doubt unhappy with the pay-out his eyes keep flicking back to. It isn’t the most profitable for sure, but they’ve had worse too. Drax seems thoughtful, one arm braced on the table while his eyes linger on the attached image. 

Haven already read it, Gamora simply leans back in her chair. Fingers idly playing with the swaying tips of Groot’s fingers. Groot is more than happy to oblige, judging by the split of a smile in his face. 

Peter slips behind them, tugging open the fridge and removing the rest of the fruit from yesterday. His stomach gnaws at him in hunger, clearly unhappy with yesterday’s treatment. Toeing the door back closed he pops open the container. Digging in he takes a stand behind Drax and Rocket. Going over the information a little more closely now that sleepy fog has lifted. 

Their destination is indeed a planet that -while mostly uncharted- is known for being covered in marshes, swamps, bogs, and fens. Basically, it’s a planet utterly saturated with water and plant life. The native species of the planet are amphibious, and as such aren’t bothered by the lack of truly dry land. Finding a spot to dock the  _ Milano _ without it sinking is going to be tricky but he has confidence. Navigating it without creating a lot of noise or at any decent speed will be another problem, again though, one they’ll get around. As much as Peter gripes about Rocket’s habits the guy comes up with some nifty equipment.

Turning his eyes to the picture he pauses. Brows knitting together as he considers it. Nova Prime had said it wasn’t a weapon  _ per se _ but it did look like one. Maybe a knife or a dagger, very ornamental. The information beside it claims it’s made of a variety of metals but it has the overall tone of copper or brass. Waves of darker metals swirl about the blade (flat, holding a thickness not ideal for cutting) leading to a handle carved out of black wood. Lighter designs, lithium threads, continuing the rolling waves from the blade. A small string of jewels run along the crest of the “waves” in a way Peter is sure is dazzling. 

He’s no curator but he bets this piece is worth a lot more than the 40k they’re being paid to get it back. Since Nova Prime did not incline to tell him  _ why _ it was taken Peter wondered if it was just a ceremonial piece, if not something more. 

Peter polished off the fruit, contained ditched behind him into the sink. “Rocket, go ahead and set us to the co-ordinance. Provided nothing gets on our tail should only take three days to get there. We’ll have to approach and land quietly. Looks like Nova has been kind enough to tell us where it is on the planet.” 

Rocket scoffed turning away from the holo and to Peter. “Yeah sure, but mind telling me why we’re only getting 40,000 for this gig? You and I both know that Nova is skating us.” He asked, standing to his full height to address the hybrid. 

Peter rolled his eyes, of course Rocket was going to bring it up. Pointing to the header of the message he stated, “Because I was the only one awake in the middle of the night. Like, half-awake even. I wasn’t in the mood to talk or bargain. We’re still getting something for this job. A job that shouldn’t take us more than a few hours, tops.” That said, Peter turned back to the fridge, finding that now he was eating he was  _ ravenous _ . 

Rocket hopped down from the table, shaking his head while muttering, “Save the whole damn galaxy and still getting gypped.” Sour though his tone was, Rocket didn’t push the matter. Scaling the ladder to the cockpit in quick, easy movements. Mere moments later the engines of the  _ Milano _ stirred to life. A simple, huge roar combined with the soft whine of turbines against a backdrop to the mechanical sliding of wings into place. 

Rocket guided the  _ Milano _ up with ease, barely a bump to the interior of the ship or its occupants. Heavy, rhythmic clangs echoed against the hull as the docking station released them. Just as well as they had only paid for a few days. 

Peter stepped back from the fridge, elbowing it closed as he held various other containers that were due to be checked on regardless. Due to the nature of the  _ Milano’s _ occupants food that generally became leftovers was consumed post-haste at a later meal or the next day. Sometimes it hung around however, and at the moment Peter was glad. Rations built to sustain the races of the galaxy were not the most palatable if they did their job. 

Soft pops filter through the kitchenette as Peter places each container on the counter and opens them. So far none smell bad far as he can tell and look similar to when they were packaged. Unlike with the fruit Peter digs out a fork from a nearby drawer and seats himself on the counter to eat. Not really doing it for the taste so much as to just consume. 

Once or twice he catches Gamora’s eyes flicker toward him but it isn’t long before a somewhat thick manilla folder is balanced on her lap. A calloused fingertip scratching the tip of Groot’s head. He also catches Drax looking between them as if searching for something. To which Peter raises an eyebrow that Drax only brushes off. The larger man’s lips turned up in a I-See-Something-You-Don’t kind smile. 

Seeing that on Drax’s face had Peter pausing, his next bite halfway to his mouth. Was he missing something? Deciding to brush it off for now Peter finished container number four (some of them were pretty empty), again ditching it into the sink. He makes sure to give each piece a quick rinse before setting them off to the side. He’ll return to them later after he’s showered and checked the brand once more. 

Patting his hands dry with a spare cloth it’s another trip to his part of the bunks to collect fresh clothes for the day. This time it’s a pair of old sweats and a sweater that isn’t too thick, both shades of gray and faded from repeated washing. Both will fit loose enough that he won’t have to worry about any added pressure on the brand as it continues to heal. A quick check of the clock shows he’s been up for about an hour, if he’s guessing what time Gamora woke him up correctly. 

Tracing the familiar path to the bathroom Peter is quickly building a routine as he places his clothes on the shelf, fisting his hands in the hem of his shirt so he can pull it up. He has it almost over his head when the door to the bathroom opens; a single soft hiss nearly covered by the sound of the engines. 

Whirling around he shoved his shirt back into position, tension flooding his body. Peter’s heartbeat thudding in his ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't intended to end it here originally but this was already getting to be over three pages without much covered so I wanted to provide a some-what decent split since I'm getting our Guardians planet side in Chapter 8. Fingers crossed I post 7 later tonight!


	7. Rock-a-bye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's tendency to "deal with things later" begins to catch up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 Y'all!! Ahahaaahahaaha we aren't on the planet yet. I don't know when we'll be. I've been mushing my muse into this damn keyboard getting this thing done. It's like, eight pages in my word doc. >>
> 
> We'll get there when we get there?

“Gamora!” Peter hissed, feeling a wash of heat flood his face. Breathing heavily he rubbed his forehead, trying to calm the abrupt rush his body experienced in a moment of panic. “What are you doing in here? Did Drax see you?” He asked, shifting back to allow a little more room for Gamora.

Gamora, to her credit, didn’t look ruffled in the slightest as she casually locked the door. The white of the medkit stark against the green of her skin as she removed it from the closet. “No one saw me come in, Peter. I put Drax on dish duty and passed Groot up to Rocket. I am in here to make sure you are giving this the seriousness it deserves.” Her words are cool, at odds with the stern gaze she had leveled at him. “Now, pull up your shirt and turn around.” 

Blinking, it took Peter a moment to have everything connect the way it should. When it did he did not take off his shirt but crossed his arms before him. Practically bristling as he shot back, “I  _ am _ taking this seriously. I know how burns effect  _ my _ body.” 

Then Gamora’s stern gaze turned harder, colder, and Peter wilted back a little. 

“You would be if you had already told us, Peter. Turn around. Shirt up.” She told him, her words clipped. She has already bowed twice, it would not happen a third time. 

_ God, trying to scare my pants off too? _ Peter thought even as he rotated on the balls of his feet, lifting his shirt up to his shoulders. Slipping it over his head to hold it in his hands. Despite the frost in her tone, when Gamora lifts up his right arm it’s gentle. Deft fingers pulling away last night’s patch in one smooth motion. Holding himself still Peter still can’t help the way his muscles flutter under her touch. Nor hide the winces as Gamora tests the reddened area around the brand. Peter’s lips pulled into a thin line to keep any hiss of pain to himself. 

Gamora makes a soft noise but not one that Peter could say he knows off-hand. If it were another he might call it one of consideration or being in between two decisions. But Gamora is perhaps the most decisive person he knows besides either Rocket or Drax. Probably Groot too. That train of thought passes quickly though, as she raises to stand behind him a hand on one shoulder to get him to face her. Her face, while not the neutral composed look it normally holds, has lost a lot of the harshness. 

“Shower and then I’ll finish treating it.” She said. 

Again, Peter is thrown for a loop a grin cracking his face. “What, are you just going to just wait here too?” He joked, gesturing to the rather small bathroom the  _ Milano _ housed. 

“Yes, now, shower. Just don’t scrub your burn to hard.” Gamora confirmed, gesturing herself to the frosted doors of the shower. 

Don’t get him wrong, he’s been naked in front of women before (it’s kind of necessary for sex) but at that moment he found himself flushing. Heat suffusing high in his cheeks. His hands tightened on his shirt, an aborted laugh bouncing in his chest. “Come on Gamora, I know I have a reputation but I thought you had some class. At least take me out before asking me to strip.” And his mouth was running.  _ Great. _

The eyeroll Gamora does reeks of disgust and exasperation as she turned her back to Peter. Arms resolute as they settle under her chest. “You’re such an ass. Just get clean, Quill.” She groused, gentle waves disturbing her hair as she shook her head.

Ouch.  _ Quill. _ Good job, Peter, you made her mad. Squeezing his eyes shut as he exhaled slowly Peter turned around himself. Pitching his shirt to the side he makes quick work of his pants and underwear. Stepping into the shower stall before he even turned on the water. Which he did, feeling his throat draw tight over a  _ very manly _ squeak as the ice-cold water struck his skin. Every muscle jumping at the sensation. He does notice the soothing feeling it gives his burn plus the extensive bruising on his left side. Only shifting into the spray after warmth eased in degree by degree and he set to cleaning. A quick succession of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and facial cleanser. Water off Peter pauses at the shower door. 

“Um, could you hand me a towel? Not used to, uh, company.” He asked, doing his utmost to sound apologetic. Putting one hand over the lip of the shower a towel touches his fingers not much after. Drying himself off Peter wraps the towel around his waist and tucks it into place. Only then does he step out of the shower and start getting dressed. He slips into fresh underpants before ditching the towel. 

A sharp breath draws Peter’s attention from where he’s bent over, one leg into his sweats. When he looks at her face, Gamora’s eyes are locked onto his left leg. The same tight lines of anger on her face from yesterday. Checking himself, Peter can see a couple spots where the worst of the bruising has matured. Turning them a proper black with darker flecks covering the area around them. Walking all day yesterday plus sleeping in his cramped chair has it reminding Peter that it’s  _ sore _ and would prefer he rest. 

Finishing putting on his pants Peter puts his right side toward Gamora, angling his face away from hers. 

Gamora lets out a slow breath, popping open the med-kit as she removes another gauze pad and two tubes of ointment. One Peter can see is the burn ointment he’s been using, the other is in a yellow-gold tube and looks about half used. An over-the-counter antibiotic used for small cuts. Peter obediently lifts up his right arm as Gamora sets herself on brand. Covering the irritated (and actually kind of painful now) area with a combination of the two medicines. 

Gamora waits until she has put the gauze pad securely in place before speaking again. “Did those happen at the same time you got the brand?” While not a whisper, her voice is quiet. Her gaze seeking out Peter’s even with him avoiding hers. 

“Yeah, some guy with suckered tentacles for arms get me. It’s not that bad.” Peter provides, reaching over and collecting his sweater. Slipping it over his head before shifting to slip past Gamora and out of the bathroom. She stops him with a firm grip on his upper arm. 

“Any other injuries you plan on hiding?” Gamora asks pointedly, her frown a sharp slant across her features. 

Eyes flicking down to her hand on his arm Peter finally meets her gaze. “It’s only bruising, Gamora. They’ll fade in a week or two. Just a little sore. I’m not hiding anything else.” His response matches the quiet tone of her voice, tugging his arm from her grip with little effort. “You kind of got a look at all of me, couldn’t hide one if I wanted to.” Peter finishes, unlocking the bathroom door and slipping out.

Peter rounds the corner, pulling himself up the rungs to the cockpit. Coupled with their earlier argument a bad taste lingers in his mouth. Foul but he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it. She keeps picking at him, picking at the layers that make up  _ him _ . But he isn’t allowed the same. Isn’t really allowed to see what makes her,  _ her. _ He knows what she’s told him, knows how she started, but not the journey or where she’ll end. 

Settling back into the captain’s chair Peter automatically pulls the safety straps into position. Feeling the weight of Rocket’s eyes on him, searching for something. 

“Another day is paradise, huh?” It’s all Rocket says, reading the unsaid request for quiet. Letting it pass without a fight. 

Peter appreciates that. “Paradise, yeah.” He says, quietly, bitterly. 

 

It  _ itches. _

He’s been sitting in companionable silence with Rocket for several hours, watching the stars streak by as they navigate the relative short chain of jump gates. He runs his fingernails on the worn leather on the armrest, trying not to shift in his chair. Trying to ignore the niggling,  _ insistent _ sensation settled all around the brand. He’s trying to distract his fingers by running them on the arm rest, the muscles in his legs giving aborted twitches as he stops himself from rubbing his side against the chair. 

_ Scratching is only temporary. _ Peter tells himself, taking careful breaths in and out. Counting to five on each exhale, each inhale. Reaching up to tap the buckle release he stands up from the chair. Looking his shoulder at Rocket halfway between seat and the ladder. “I’m getting something to eat, do you want me to grab something for you too?” He asked, putting his hands in his pockets to keep from touching the brand. 

Rocket leans over the armrest of his own chair, speaking sideways so as to keep his eyes forward. “Yeah, sounds good.” 

Peter gave Rocket a thumbs up to show he heard, dropping down the hole to the common area. Upon facing the room (for lack of a better term) he saw Drax replacing the food containers in the tiny cupboard and Gamora re-organizing the table. Not that it ever stayed organized. Peter was tempted to keep count of how often she tried to enforce organization over it. 

Peter lingers next to the ladder, one hand lingering on the rail as he watches Gamora. He’s been hedgy and short with her despite her agreeing to help him without worrying the others. Blowing out a heavy breath he edges around the table, leaning against it next to where she’s standing. Gamora doesn’t even glance at him but her hands still on the small pile of parts Rocket no doubt left behind. Mindful of Drax he says softly, “Gamora, I’m sorry. I should have been more upfront with you about the bruises.” 

Gamora doesn’t answer for several long moments. Finally turning her face up to look at Peter, a hand pushing her multi-toned hair over her shoulder. “Thank you, for apologizing.” There’s honesty there, she’s accepting the apology though Peter isn’t sure if she believes it to be sincere. 

Which, he supposes, is enough. 

Peter hovers there, taking his weight from the table as Gamora returns to the table. Pinching his lips between his teeth as he kneads the healing burn. It helps, distracting his brain from the itch gnawing at his side. The pressure smarts ( _ really  _ smarts actually) but rubbing it takes the edge off the damned itch. He almost breaths a sigh in relief, he’s been trying to ignore it for the past two  _ hours,  _ with relative success. It is enough though that his weight shifts back to the table. A tension in his shoulders he didn’t realize was there unwinding as he continued his ministrations. 

He must have some weird look on his face because Gamora reaches out, pulling his hand away from his side. Peter blinks, lifting his head from where it had dropped onto his chest. “What?”

Gamora’s brow creased above her nose, still holding his wrist. “Why are you rubbing it? 

“It itches, I’m trying not to scratch.” Peter answered simply, his heart beating a touch too fast in his chest. “Rubbing helps the itch.” 

Gamora released Peter’s wrist, her head canting just so to one side. “It doesn’t hurt when you do that?” Again, Peter feels she’s just asking to confirm her suspicions. 

Peter shoves his hands into his pockets, shrugging one shoulder. “Kind of, but it helps more than it hurts.” He replies. 

Gamora faces the table, her eyes glancing over the piles until she finds her objective. Reaching out and picking up a tablet, swiftly opening up a search engine. “There should be a better way than that. The less you disturb that the better.” She said under her breath. 

“It’s just because it’s healing, it’ll fade.” Flicking his eyes down to the tablet Peter stepped away from the table, “But if you can, have fun finding a journal on Terrans.” He says offhandedly. He’s tried but with how few humans exist outside of Earth the galactic community at large generally have absolutely no clue on how to treat one. It’s caused more than one issue when he was first really getting into Ravager business. Most Xandarian articles he finds seem to match up pretty well. At least enough that he hasn’t died yet. 

Then he’s sliding into a slim door and down another ladder. The storage carriage for the  _ Milano _ has a separate bay door at the front of the ship, tall enough that loading pallets of nutrient blocks isn’t a hassle at all. His little fighter ship fits more than others might think. Reaching out to a familiar spot, his palm finds a metal pole that he tugs over to him. It glides smoothly on its track, barely pausing before Peter is climbing the series of steps that bring him level to the top of the pallets. 

Looking between the two pallets he bobs his head from side to side. It’ll last them until they can properly restock, which will probably be after they return Nova’s little dagger. Not that these will both be gone by then, just that they’ll have to shift them around to fit more. 

One button press later the small gravitation field keeping the pallet from shifting is deactivated and Peter can grab two “meals” for himself and another pair for Rocket. He’ll have to enlist someone to help later so they can unload some of these to the kitchenette. The blocks are only a little larger than his hand, a couple inches tall at best. They keep the body running however so he’ll get over it and keep getting over it. 

Reactivating the grav-field he steps back down the shifting ladder, a push of his foot sending it back into place. Tucking the four packs under one arm he’s hauling himself back up the ladder. Getting to the top he finds Gamora no longer trying to enforce order on the table but still moving her fingers across the tablet. Given the amount it’s been since  _ he’s _ looked it up he doubts he remembers where he found it. Peter isn’t sure that it covers his particular case however. 

He edges around the table, up beside Drax as he slides open a cabinet to remove a cup. Groot was probably thirsty too. Setting the cup into the damp sink he flicked the faucet on. 

“If you wish to hide your courtship with Gamora, I would suggest you do not both use the bathroom at the same time.” Drax rumbled next to him, running a dish towel over his hands. Silvery eyes fixed on Peter in all their brutal honesty. 

Peter returned Drax’s gaze, his face drawing tight even as he spoke. “I’m not having a ‘courtship’ with Gamora, Drax. I just forgot to lock the door.” Which was the truth, he had simply forgotten to lock the bathroom door. As for his “courting,” that wasn’t happening. Not for lack of trying. 

Drax hummed to himself, turning off the water and laying the dish towel over the faucet. “If that is what you say, Peter.” 

Peter took up the cup, cutting behind Drax rather than walk around the entire table. Upon reaching the ladder he very carefully took the lip of the cup between his teeth. Tightening his grip on both rations and cup he made his way to the cockpit. Holding his head as steady as possible so as not to splash water up his nose. 

Standing he took the cup back in hand, setting it beside Groot in his pot. His pot resting on a small table probably meant for something besides what they used it for. That way Groot could reach over and either pour it into his pot or else drink it through his fingers or something. He didn’t know a whole lot about plants, alright? 

Dividing the rations between his hands he gave two to Rocket, setting back in his chair with his own. Balancing one on his legs he popped the other open, peeling the disposable utensils off of the cling film that sealed it. While they had  _ actual _ forks and spoons and knives Drax had just finished all of the dishes Peter had made. So for now, he’d used the utensils provided. 

Eating the rations is rather like eating a sleeve of salted, plain crackers. Only it doesn’t really develope a taste like crackers do. As he eats Peter pulls up their course, eyes darting between jumps (he notes Rocket left a decent amount of time between each one), hunting for possible trouble. Not that he thinks Rocket would intentionally lead them into a bad situation but no one person can know the entire galaxy. 

Their path is a decent one, both taking the shortest distance to their destination but also avoiding any areas under heavy Nova watch. They aren’t back on Nova’s Shit List yet, not to Peter’s knowledge, though he supposes it’s kind of habit. You hold a record (even minor) you learn to avoid places like that until you have business there. Old habits die hard. 

Again, Peter and Rocket sit in relative silence. Peter switching to a general news feed on the display to scroll through; one didn’t make a living by toeing the line without knowing where the line lay. With autopilot running, Rocket leaves his seat on occasion to hop over to Groot’s table. Checking on the sapling. Odd but kind of cute, not that Peter would ever say that. Rocket is smart and quick and he is  _ very _ capable of getting back at him. He’d rather not have that kind of target on his back. Not because of some stupid comment. 

He supposes this is what people call “companionable,” at least when he and Rocket aren’t sniping at each other for one reason or another. 

 

Time passed like that, in ebbs and flows, quiet and idle conversation. There is only so much to do on the  _ Milano _ and with five passengers upkeep is a group effort. One performed under the command of Gamora who would rather they keep their “nice things”  _ nice _ . Peter and Rocket bicker good-naturedly over who has the better gear (Peter is resolute, his may not be the most high-tech but it’s served him well). So when the “daytime” lights slowly dim into their “night” levels both of them vanish below deck, Rocket cradling Groot’s pot against his chest. A yawn is stifled into Peter’s shoulder, rubbing at the corner of his eye. 

It’s almost weird, how quickly they all adjusted to the “sleep schedule” the  _ Milano  _ was set to. The one who took the longest to adjust was Rocket. Peter didn’t know if it was because of some sort of nocturnal nature or something else. Eventually, the crew bowed to the dimming of lights. 

Peter’s shoulders ache gently, the muscles wound up tight with tension. The brand still itches like crazy but spending time with Rocket negates him rubbing the same spot over and over. Gamora might have gotten the questioning looks to end but he knows that the others haven’t completely dropped suspicions. His little “mugged” lie was thin, liable to go up in flame like the paper it’s made of. Right alongside “bad dinner.” For being the talker of their little group he’s been pretty shit at it. 

The slow gathering of the  _ Milano’s _ occupants allows Peter to use the bathroom without Gamora fitting herself into the small space. He’s getting a real routine here; gather clothes, use the bathroom, change the bandage, change clothes, and done. He squeezes in proper hygiene (trimming his beard and brushing his teeth) before vacating the bathroom. Casually flipping Rocket the bird when Rocket mockingly says, “Take long enough, pretty boy?”

“Told you, this look takes time.” Peter replies, flippant. 

Rocket’s eyeroll is evident in his scoff but he takes his turn in the bathroom. “Beauty Queen” is said in hushed tones.  

Peter stifles yet another yawn as he takes to his bunk. Careful not to bump his head on the one above his now that their back among the stars. A matching pair of bunks flipped out on the other side, normally kept tucked away until they were needed or traveling. The final, fifth one existed on the back wall but was mostly used as a bumpy, severely uneven table. Turning his back to the built-in tape player Peter pulled his blanket up under his arm. Eyes sliding closed while he focused on his mother’s mixtape playing behind him. Focusing on that to ignore the burning itch chewing like ants at his side. It works, kind of, it’s enough to let him sleep he thinks. It’s one last heavy exhale, sinking into his padded bunk, and he’s out. 

 

_ Fire. It consumes him, blooming from his right side. A blaze of white and red. Pain trampling up and down spine as he twists, pulls against an invisible force pinning him down. Dry, rasping hisses flooding his ears in reteched words. He’s immobile and all he wants to do is to fight back, to escape. But the flame burns brighter, impossibly. Eating at him, chewing apart his skin layer by microscopic layer. Agonizingly slow, taking its time. A patient beast who knows its prey is theirs.  _

Gamora is jolted awake by an animalistic scream. Her eyes go to Rocket first, but Rocket is awake, glittering eyes turned down to the bunk below him. She follows his eyes, and even in the dim lights of the  _ Milano _ she can see Peter quite clearly. 

He’s  _ screaming _ . Feet pressed to his bunk, hands fisted into his blanket, and his back bowed so fiercely it isn’t touching the padded surface. The tendons in his neck straining from his efforts. 

Gamora climbs down from her own bunk above Drax’s, taking the single long stride to Peter’s side. Her hand raises and Peter sucks in a thin-sounding breath, sweat gleaming on his skin. She barely has time to touch his arm when he starts to thrash on his bunk. Twisting in a vicious motion carrying his fist into her nose. 

_ Crack! _

_ Hands, hands everywhere. Holding him, tight, unrelenting. He tries to fight, to escape, but they’re  _ everywhere.

Gamora’s head reels back, blinking even as her nose snaps back into place on its own. Blood is wet on her upper lip; a thick glob of moisture. She doesn’t bother confirming it, just catching both of Peter’s wayward fists. Trapping them against his chest, trying to rouse him with small but strong shakes. “Peter! Peter, wake up!”

Peter does not wake, nor does he stop struggling, wrapped up tight in his own nightmare. She can hear Drax sitting up in his bunk behind her. Most likely from the strained, frightened, and pain whimpers coming from Peter below her. She has to brace her whole torso over him, a little surprised by the ferocity in which he fights her help. Muscles straining and hips bucking while he kicks at the air. “Peter!” She tries again, and though his eyes crack open to slits Gamora knows he has yet to wake. 

_ A weight on his chest, squeezing, pressure taking away his air. Air that he needs, craves, can’t live without. All the while the fire still burns, an inferno eating his side.  _

Gamora purses her lips, decision made even as she regrets it. She does not like causing her newfound friends pain (maybe Peter least of all). What must be done must be done, however. Leaning forward, she presses Peter’s left side to the bunk, just barely lifting his right one off of it. Hiking one knee onto his bunk she shifts her weight and brings Peter down onto her knee. Right on the fresh brand. 

Peter’s whimpers explode into a yowl of agony, his eyes opening fully and coming into focus. Tears forming at the corners of his eyes even as his eyes find her face. Even in the dark (maybe especially so) his looks pale as most moons, the fear from his nightmare still clear on his face as he sucks down air. Lips sealing shut as he cuts off his cry of pain. Under the fear Gamora can see the confusion, the hurt, clouding his face. 

Gamora releases his hands, her hands hovering before she reaches forward and pushes sweat-damped curls of hair back. “You were having a nightmare, Peter.” She explains gently, shifting off of him and putting both feet on the floor. 

Peter swallows, still catching his breath while his eyes roll around the darkened room. Possibly confirming that yes, he did wake. A grimace of pain consumes his face, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Gamora pointedly sets aside her regret, her pity, and moves her hands to Peter’s shoulder. Lifting him to a sitting position against the cassette player. “Are you okay?”

Peter inhales shakily one last time, steadying himself then. Slow nods building into something fast, quicker. Meant to reassure them rather than himself. “Yeah, yeah. Not my first one.” He tells her but he doesn’t meet her face. 

He feels her hand remain on his arm, telegraphing his rampant tremors as he separates his waking world from his sleeping on. The brand is an intense shot of pain, probably from where he felt Gamora’s knee digging into it. There’s still that numb area, where the burn is white and looks way too much like scar tissue. 

Looking behind Gamora at Drax, who is now standing like he wants to come over and… comfort him? Peter isn’t sure. Just that there’s something weird about his expression; if only because it’s something he isn’t used to seeing. Rocket is more of a presence, standing at the foot of his bed. He lowers his head, staring at his knees and drawing away from Gamora. Wiping the sweat from his brow. “Go back to bed guys, I’ll be fine.” 

“Fine he says.” Rocket comments quietly, “Liar.” But Rocket hasn’t gone up to his bunk yet. The fur on his tail still puffed up more so than usual.

Gamora’s eyes flick down, a moment’s consideration, before she grips Peter’s arm gently. “Come on, I had to try hard to wake you up. Let me check your side.” Her invitation is in words only, guiding him to his feet to guide Peter to the bathroom. He goes in with no argument, his head still bowed. 

Peter goes over to the toilet, flicking the lid down so he can sit without falling in. His knees feel like jelly and he’s still reeling from his dream. His shirt is sticking both to the front and back of his chest as he feels a headache start to build in his temples. 

The door hisses open, Gamora flicking one of the softer lights on to avoid blinding Peter. He groans softly, reaching under his right arm to hitch up his shirt. Exposing the bandage to her. She kneels down in front of it, peeling the bandage away. Underneath the burn -somehow- looks even redder than before, casting both blisters and the “r” into stark relief. Already darkening beads of blood dot the bandage and around a few of the scabs. 

“Hold it.” Gamora tells him, standing to get a spare cloth from the closet. Dampening it from the faucet before resuming her position, dabbing at the scabs. Cleaning it as gently as she can in the silence of the bathroom. She goes over the damp spots with a dry part of the cloth, easing the bandage out of Peter’s hand to lay it back over the brand. She reaches up to the sink, trading the cloth for an ice pack she’d set in the sink. Guiding it under his hand so Peter can hold it under his shirt. 

It isn’t the first nightmare they’ve experienced on the  _ Milano _ , and it won’t be the last. Their brush with Ronan, their pasts, and especially holding the Infinity Stone’s power between them left mental wounds. Before the  _ Milano _ had been restored it was an off-and-on occurrence for one of them to experience one. Rarer to actually seek one of the others. Growing up alone, having your people taken away… It stood between them. 

Peter can feel her remain by the sink, slumping onto the back of the toilet. The ice pack a powerful relief against his side. It helps to settle his ragged nerves, letting him feel less like he’s going to tear apart at the seams. 

Peter isn’t sure how long they remain there, her watching him and he trying his damndest to forget his nightmare. It’s long enough however that the ice pack is half warm under his palm. Passing it over his shoulder he hears it plop into the sink bowl. Gamora fits a hand between wall and shoulder, easing him away from it until he’s being slowly lowered onto the floor. Exhausted, he allows it without comment. He finds his back slotted to her front, one strong arm wrapped across his chest. 

“Tell me how it happened.” Soft, almost too soft.

Peter simply lets his head fall back against her shoulder. Eyes slipping closed and so, he tells her. Tell her about the dirty looks he’d felt the entire night, the people who followed him from the restaurant, the whole thing. He has to stop, center himself again more than once. But he can’t stop the words once they start, won’t let her have the partial story anymore. He’s too shaken, too tired, too fucking  _ scared _ not to. 

When he does finish, Gamora wraps her other arm around Peter, resting her head on top of his. Her chest rises and falls in an even pattern and Peter finds himself matching it. Slow, even breaths and her at his back putting weights on his eyelids. Muscles falling limp as he falls into a doze. Taking a certain kind of peace in her company that allows him to actually fall asleep. Gamora would keep him safe, he had no doubt. 


	8. Alternative Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is slapped, Rocket is Rocket, and Drax is Drax.

Peter awoke with a groan, his headache from the night before beating drums in his temples. Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth which feels way too dry. Whatever he’s lying on is moving in steady, counted breaths. Not even opening his eyes he asked, “Tell me we did not just spend half the night in the bathroom.”

“Your nightmare was pretty rough.” Gamora’s voice came from right beside his ear, a gentle pressure against the side of his head.

Lifting his hands Peter scrubbed his eyes, cradling his face afterwards. He almost wished he had been drunk enough late night to deserve this headache. He feels Gamora’s arms withdraw and then a glass touches his arm.

“Drax brought you some water. He seemed to think me moving would upset you.” Gamora explained. Removing her hand when Peter took hold of the glass.

Peter rolled forward, holding the glass out in front of him until he was sitting up straight. Sipping instead of just chugging down the water. When the glass was half empty he pulled his legs up to his chest, shuffling until he sat with his back to the shower. Running a finger around the lip of his glass.

Facts hover in the forefront of Peter’s mind. The other Guardians gathered around him last night, Gamora herding him into the bathroom, holding him, Drax not wanting to disturb or upset him. It brought a small, tender smile to his face. At least until shame brought its buddy guilt to the party and he dropped his eyes to the floor. His smile sliding off his face.

“You can still tell them.” She reminded him, her legs folding and her hands clasped in her lap. There was no force behind her words, only truth.

Peter flicked his eyes up to her, taking a longer sip from his water. “I have a nightmare, and I’m treated like something fragile. I tell them I got branded and what do you think they’d do? Drax’s favorite past times are killing and revenge. Rocket was on my ship for two _minutes_ before he made a bomb capable of destroying a small _moon_. It isn’t something I want to risk, setting them on a group of strangers I don’t even know how to find.” He tells her with a soft voice; mindful of the most-likely unlocked bathroom door.

Gamora scoffed, shaking her head at the “logic” of his words. If one could even call it that. “Why not?” She asked.

Peter looks at her, matching her gaze. “Because it won’t change what happened. It won’t stop other shit heads like that in the future. It won’t change why they did it.” A heavy breath escapes him and he tosses back the rest of the water. Wishing it was something stronger. Climbing up to his feet and refilling his glass. His palm wandering to the brand, knuckles rubbing circles into the skin around it. Trying to abate the itch once more.

The silence that follows his words is thick, heavy. A weight between them. Gamora stands up herself, grabbing his wrist and holding it away from the brand. “Peter. We do not _care_ about your previous associates. We do _not_ judge you for anything you’ve done. You know as well as I do that we have all done much, much worse.” Her voice is firm, steady when wounded green eyes peer at her over Peter’s shoulder. “You think too little of yourself, Peter. You tell them what you told me, tell them not to seek them out, they _will_ listen. We follow _you_ , Peter.”  

Peter tugged his wrist out of her hold, curling his fingers into his palm. The water he drank already starting to help with his headache. A little self-depreciating laugh shaking Peter’s shoulders, resting his weight on the wall next to him. Turning just enough to look at Gamora without craning his neck. “So I just go out there, announce what they did to me? Just something to put into casual conversation: ‘Gee, guys, before you shoot me for lying to you, I got branded and didn’t tell you.’ Yeah. That’ll go over well.” His face had twisted by the end of his little “speech,” upper lip curled without showing teeth. His voice more bitter than Rocket’s coffee.

Gamora loosely put her hands on her hips, more to have them somewhere than in a display of emotion. She watches Peter, studies him. So much of Peter seems to come from his gestures, his expressions. It is a confusing but wondrous thing to study. Defensiveness vibrates from Peter, lashing with words from the proverbial corner he sees himself in. He’s practically bristling behind them, clouded to the logic she presents to him. This brand, this wound, affects Peter more than he realizes. At least more than Peter is willing to see. She wonders how there is any benefit to his continued refusals but also knows that trying to get it out of him would be a fight. She still finds her comparison apt; Peter is acting like any fauna that has been trapped in a corner.

Gamora turned toward the door, dropping her hands from her hips as she left the bathroom. She could fight with him all day long and neither would gain ground. Leaving Peter without a response.

Peter hefted a sigh, his chin dropping to his chest. Running a hand through his hair to scrub at the back of his neck. Letting his hand rest there for a moment until he took up the glass, downing half of it in one go. Fetching the ice pack from the sink before exiting the bathroom himself.

Rocket is once more perched by the sink, filling up a glass from the faucet, the water reservoir for the coffee machine open behind him. Checking the holo Peter sees that it isn’t even ten o’clock yet so still relatively early. He walks up to the freezer, popping the door open to toss the ice pack inside. What they keep frozen is limited. Well, the _edibles_ that they keep frozen are limited, the rest of the space is taken up by jars, test tubes, and several other containers filled with various contents. Most are gel-like, viscous liquids while others have frozen solid or are otherwise volatile at room temperature. Before Xandar his freezer had been an empty thing. Now he’s sure that if you hit it hard enough he’d be down one ship and one crew.

Rocket claimed every chemical in there was stable.

Shutting the freezer door Peter sets his half-full glass into the sink. The atmosphere in the common area is easy but Peter can feel the soft edge under the calm. Nightmares make them hedgy, hell he’d been wary of some of the others the day after himself.

He doesn’t see Drax or Gamora around but they’re most likely up in the cockpit. Groot’s pot is on the table, the sapling gently swaying to the faint sound of the radio. It’s something Peter takes pride in, Groot’s little dances. Groot hasn’t been growing up all that much, simply getting rounder as more and more vines and bark plates grow. No one is really sure when he’ll be done with the pot but they’re going to have to pick up a bigger one soon. In hindsight, they should have grabbed one on the last planet.

He and Rocket trade simple nods rather than say “morning” as neither are caffeinated nor enjoy the early hours. Though when surrounded by space, early is relative. Peter goes back to the bunks then, tugging open the draw next to his bunk. Gently taking the Walkman from its resting place, toeing the draw shut. He keeps the first mixtape in his Walkman, the second in the tape deck. For a while he’d simply toted Awesome Mix vol. 2 with him everywhere, relishing in the new set of songs. Months passed and soon enough he was flipping between the two tapes. Drawing away from the bunks he makes sure to turn up on the volume on the tape deck a couple notches.

Peter tucks his Walkman into his pants, draping the headphones around his neck. He passes through the common area to slip down to the storage space. Calloused fingers loosely gripping the ladder as he slides down with ease. He enjoys company, craves it actually. At this moment however the need to be alone builds a wall between him and those wants. Automatic he pulls out the ladder and hefts himself on top of the closest pallet. The grav-field will ensure he won’t fall and the rations won’t be crushed, so no lost meals.

Hiking up his shirt he reclined back, keeping his left side toward the ladder. Just in case. Gently peeling off the bandage he didn’t bother to check on it. It just needed some air and he needed the time to himself. Placing his headphones over his ears, eyes sliding closed. His legs hanging over the edge of the pallet. He sings along, loud enough to hear himself but soft enough so it doesn’t reach the upper decks.

_“Ooh-oo child, things are gonna get easier. Ooh-oo child, things'll get brighter.”_

 

He stays like that for hours, undisturbed. Eventually he taps his feet and fingers to the beat. Patterns he knows as well as he knows each and every word of his mother’s mixtape. He’s been so shaken lately, mentally, physically, it grounds him. Rhythms and time-hazed memories his only company.

Hunger makes itself known at some point, something Peter puts off acknowledging it. At least until he’s rounded back to the same track for the fourth time; sitting up he reapplies the bandage and tugs his shirt down. He feels, better. Though not by much he’ll admit. He has no better way to broach the topic and any arrangement of words just sounds dumb. Inadequate.

The sound of the storage door opening precedes Rocket’s voice, “Hey! Star-Dork, it’s your turn to drive!” While not exactly impatient, Rocket’s tone is short; as if having been forced to wait to call him. Probably Gamora’s doing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right up!” Peter called back, climbing down onto the ladder. He takes a couple meals with him and heads up to the main deck without dawdling. Now undistracted by his mother’s music the itching in his side returns to the forefront of his mind. He’s never had such a persistent itch, relentless as it dogged him. It’s starting to piss him off.

Back up the ladder he goes, meals under his arm, and edges around Rocket.

Rocket had some kind of omni-tool tucked under his arm. His pointed muzzle crinkled in annoyance. “Finally.” The raccoon grumbled.

Flicking his headphones down to his neck Peter quirked a brow, “What the auto-pilot givin’ ya trouble, I thought you were an ace flyer?” He commented, not quite able to hide the smirk curling about his lips.

Rocket rolled his eyes, taking the omni-tool in hand to point it at Peter’s face. “Like this ship could give me trouble any day. Nah, I gotta get something together for this stupid job you took.” He replied snidely. Slipping past Peter’s feet and up onto the table where various parts –some Peter had seen before and others new- lay.

“Yeah, well, keep your ass off the damn table, we eat there.” Peter sniped in kind, lacking most of the heat from a proper insult. Taking his own path up the ladder to the cockpit, where the two center chairs are, indeed, taken up by Drax and Gamora. Drax is testing out the new sharpener on one of his less ornate knives while Gamora has the tablet in her hands.

Peter passed the rations out from under his arms to Drax and Gamora. Two for the big guy, one for her. His second ration from yesterday still sits on the improvised table, which he grabs. Easily settling into his chair and switching the controls to his set. He clicks the buckles into place, eyeing the auto-pilot’s progress. Steady as the last time though the projected time they reach their destination has grown.

Frowning Peter pulled up the travel log alongside their current systems. Looks like someone (Rocket, most likely) pulled back on the throttle a couple hours ago. It hasn’t added a lot of time but it’s time added. Minimizing both he leans forward, palms resting in familiar grips to bring the _Milano_ back up to cruising speed. He doesn’t want to delay this job if they don’t have to.

From behind him Peter can hear the soft pops of disturbed pressure as both Drax and Gamora open their rations. Drax’s rumble is loud despite their proximity to each other,

“So, you have come out of hiding, Quill. I had begun to wonder if we needed to check on you. Gamora insisted that we leave you to your devices.”

Peter shot a glance over his shoulder at both of them, opening his own meal. “Not hiding, just taking some time to myself. I need that sometimes. Don’t worry about it.” He commented.

Clearly Gamora sees something in Drax’s face because she spoke next, “Last night has been dealt with, Drax. It is not unusual for even social folks to want time alone.”

Something they had all experienced at least once on the _Milano_ , even so short a time being together. Rocket had often been found in the tighter, darker spots of the _Milano_ while the storage room or even the bunks became regular spots to spend time alone. Company on the _Milano_ was constant; there just wasn’t enough space to spread out. Which Peter had been fine with, when it was only him. Even Groot, though Groot took up a lot less space and couldn’t move his pot, wasn’t left in a room alone. Though that was probably because he was the most delicate of them- if only for the moment.

After that Drax dropped the subject, distracting himself with his meals.

Peter doesn’t wolf down his own meal but also doesn’t take the time to convince himself it tastes like anything. A line of tension running down his spine causing his hands to seek out the ship’s controls in lieu of scratching himself bloody. Disabling the auto-pilot with a flick of his thumb and letting his body fall back into holding the _Milano_ steady. It’s something he’s done so many times before he barely has to think about it, could probably do it dead asleep without any of the others noticing, too.

Which means it isn’t a good distraction from the spot of irritation niggling in his side.

He’s had more intense episodes, healing wounds that dug fiery pins under his skin in their demand. This however, its low, a gentle crook of a finger, but it doesn’t _stop._ Focusing on another task just lets him temporarily forget that it’s there.

Peter’s fingers grip harder than they need to, harder than he’s had to in _years_. Before the easy confidence of flying took hold. It doesn’t make the _Milano_ quiver or tremble like it might have when he was a teenager. Really it bothers Peter himself because he shouldn’t have to. So instead he takes quiet, even breaths. Clearing his mind and relaxing his hands to devote as much of himself as he can to the controls under his palms. The various displays feeding him information he barely has to think about and tracking distant stars as they pass them. Arcing just outside of gravity wells from planets that come a little too close. White washing over the window with each jump they make.

He does this with more success than just cruising, the damned itching almost out of reach. Stubborn like he’s only seen children be. It’s enough that in skirting a particularly large well the _Milano_ shudders. Ceramic skittering on glass just barely echoing up from below before Peter takes them out of the well’s pull. Swearing under his breath at the slip-up, knuckles white on the controls.

_SMACK!_

“Ow!” Peter yelps, jerking the _Milano_ viciously upwards as he jumps. The sharp slap striking right over the brand. Re-engaging the auto-pilot he twists around to see Gamora, one hand still raised while the other clutches the collapsed tablet. “What the hell?!” He complains, affronted at being smacked like some misbehaving kid.

Gamora’s brow simply arches, folding her arms while she dips her chin at his side.

It takes him a moment, brows knitting together before he realizes it.

The brand has stopped itching.

Blinking slowly Peter’s hands and back relaxed. Tension simply oozing out of him. The feeling of relief almost giddying as it sweeps over him. In all of his years of self-treatment he’s never thought of _slapping_ an itch away. “…Oh.”

Silence very nearly falls before Drax howls with laughter behind them. The large man is on the floor, hand one gripping the arm rest while the other curls around his middle. Head thrown back with a grin stretching across his face. In between delighted breaths he says, “She hit you so hard, you forgot how to fly!”

“What? I did not!” Peter shot back, heat pooling in his cheeks.

“Could’ve fooled me!” Rocket’s shout came from below, the clatter of metal following it. “You trying to wreck us?”

Before Peter could defend himself Drax sat up straighter calling down, “Gamora just hit Peter!” It was the longest pause in his laughter yet, resuming in booming gales that only Drax seemed to produce.

Underneath that the higher pitches of Rocket could be heard and Peter can only imagine the grin accompanying it. “I know you two got a thing, but didn’t know you were into pain, Quill!”

“I am NOT!”

“There is no such thing!”

Their denials met the wall of laughter but did little to diffuse it. Leaving Peter to hide his beet-red face behind his hands and Gamora stalking toward the ladder. To do what Peter didn’t know or want to. “Kids, I swear on the stars, I live with children.” He bemoans. He admits to being childish, it’s a point of his charm, but he likes to think he knows better than this. Better than to laugh at potential injury. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t _done_ just that; only realizing how mortifying it is to be on the other side.

Both Drax and Rocket are starting to calm when Gamora’s voice breaks past their dissolving laughter. “Peter, down here, now!”

At this point, Peter listens just so he doesn’t have to listen to Drax at close range. Slapping the release he gets to his feet and is down the ladder without a word. Heat still lingering in his cheeks when Gamora’s hand lands between his shoulders. Directing him toward the bathroom, a sharp whistle from Rocket following them.

“Hope you two have some fun in there! I heard some people really enjoy it!” Rocket wheezed, sitting up from where he had been on his back.

“Son of a fucking-“ Peter started, already moving to turn before Gamora gave him a hard shove. Leaving Peter to stumble into the small space without retaliation. “I am shaving him _bald_.” Peter growled, making the short jump from embarrassed to angry indignation.

“We are not going to react, it will only make it worse. Gamora stated in a tone of careful calm, a darker tint to her own cheeks, just visible in the brighter lights of the bathroom. She then took Peter’s hand and placed a squared-off tube into it. “You are going to use this. I am not asking.”

Breathing harder than he should be, Peter looks down at his hand. Turning it over to read the front it. He stares at it for a good five seconds. Looking up at her Peter holds it up, “After that, no way in hell. I ain’t using _floral scented_ lotion.” He goes to hold it out to her but she pushes it into his chest.

“You are, because if not I will make you, Peter.” Gamora’s voice turned stern, her shoulders thrown back to match. “What I did is simply temporary and after _that_ I will not do it again.”

Switching his grip on it Peter managed to push it a few inches away from him. “Hell no, I’ll smack myself instead.” He returned.

Gamora simply closed her eyes, exhaled through her nose once, then whirled into movement. Spinning Peter around by the shoulders, grabbing his wrist, and pinning him to the wall with his arm held behind his back. “As I said, not a discussion.” She reminded him. Taking the tube from slackening fingers.

Peter’s face grew pinched, real fed up with people man handling him however they wanted. What he hated more though, was the rush of pure panic that had spawned in that brief flash of motion. Like his body believed that Gamora was seriously trying to hurt him. Light trembles ran down his spine, making Peter glad he had the wall to cover most of his face. Wrestling his breathing back under control. Willing himself to stop over-reacting.

So when she let go of his wrist Peter eased it out from behind him, holding up both hands with fingers open. He lingers like that before hitching up his shirt as before. Letting her get to work while he tells his body to stop fucking _shaking._

To her credit, Gamora is quick about it. Wiping the brand and surrounding burn with an anti-septic cloth (that hurts like a _mother_ ) before she flips off the cap of the lotion. A gentle, not exactly cooling sensation coming over the areas that do still have feeling in them. It is when she’s applying a fresh bandage that she speaks, “You were shaking, are you okay?”

Peter tugs his shirt back into place, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine, Gamora.” He tells her, rotating on his heels to lean on the wall. Arms loosely folded over his chest. Feeling slow and a little empty after the previously charged emotions.

Gamora looks like she wants to press, that she’ll call him on his crap but changes her mind. Only making sure he watches her put the tube of lotion in one of the drawers under the sink. “I found something small, but it most likely itches because the skin is too dry. Put that on as needed. And if I have to do it again, I will do it _every_ time.” She warns Peter, prodding his chest for emphasis.

“Crystal clear.” Peter muttered, angling his face away from hers.

She leaves and he’s alone once more.

He remains there for two minutes longer, waiting until he can no longer hear Rocket’s cackling laughter. Stepping out of the bathroom to head back to the captain’s chair. Now that the lotion has sank in, he’ll admit (to himself _only_ ) that it does seem to be helping. It takes him a moment to notice that he is alone in the cockpit; Drax must have gone down to do… something. Which, fine by him. Being the butt of the joke was something he was all too familiar with.

He was fine with being alone. He was. Any claim to a sudden, inexplicable tide of loneliness was false.

Peter let time pass like that, choosing to fly himself now that he itch had abated. Leaving him undistracted for a time. Eventually, Gamora joins him. She does not try to spark conversation and he responded in kind. Sometimes silence is just easier. The silence remains through until “night” comes to the _Milano_. Peter reluctantly flicking the auto-pilot back on and drawing back from the controls. Leaning his head back onto the chair he says softly, “I don’t mean to be such an ass about you helping me.”

For a long moment, he isn’t sure she’s heard him. Then soft steps echo in the cockpit and Gamora stands beside him. “I know this is hard for you, I only wish for honesty, Peter.” Dark eyes level on Peter and he concedes a gentle nod.

It is together that he and Gamora head down to the main deck, breaking into their own night-time routines in a quiet that is much more companionable than before. Peter’s new routine now including rubbing the sweetly-smelling lotion into the dry, painful skin. Sleep comes easier to Peter than it has since he got this damned thing and he notes to thank Gamora in the morning.

 

This time, when morning comes, Peter isn’t truly sure he’s woken up. Thick, blunt fingers are running up and down between his shoulders and occasionally up into his hair. An all-encompassing feeling of comfort and safety filling him. It reminds him of hazy memories, sources of warmth untarnished by the agony of his mother’s loss. A time before her sickness. His tongue seems glued to the roof of his mouth, not that it matters. Someone else asks his question for him,

“What are you doing, Drax?” Of course, it’s Gamora asking. Her voice still coming from her bunk across the hall. Sleepy thickness still clinging to it.

“Peter was restless in his sleep, the previous night’s dream maybe. I did not wish for a repeat.” Drax answered in a surprisingly soft, reverent tone. One Peter had only heard when the topic of Drax’s family came up.

“Is it comforting?” Gamora’s next words are quiet, a curious hint to them.

“It quieted him during the night, so I believe so.” Drax’s response is just as quiet.

“He didn’t lash out like before?” She asks next, fabric rustling from her bunk.

Drax’s next words are thoughtful, “He was not as deep into it as before. Not enough fear to fight blindly.”

Peter shifts, mentally shaking himself awake as he groans softly. Peeling his tongue off the roof of his mouth, he yanks himself away from the all-too-dangerous warmth he (not so) secretly wishes to linger in. Drax’s hand vanishes from his back and Peter pushes himself up to sit. “Dude, why are you in my bed?” He asks, as if he hadn’t gotten the answer already.

“To keep your nightmares at bay.” Drax’s tone still has that nostalgic quality but it’s approaching his usual tone quickly.

“Uh, thanks, Drax.” Peter said sincerely, lifting his eyes to Gamora afterward. Hoping she understood that he meant it for her too.

With that shared, it seemed as though Drax had said his piece. Drax stood up from Peter’s bed and headed into the common area. Gamora climbs out of her own bunk, taking a moment to lay a hand on Peter’s shoulder before following suit. Peter lets the soft small show on his face. Quiet breaths of laughter bouncing in his chest.

How he did end up so lucky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! I was going to finish this yesterday but apparently when your prescription glasses are 3 years old and your eyes are tired 90% of the time it makes it hard to type for long periods of time. Woo my screen is blurry!! 
> 
> If you guys would like to see something for day three, leave a comment or shoot me a message! I can't guarantee it'll happen but right now I don't have any plans besides glossing over it and starting this little job I handed them.


	9. Fool Me Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket has trust issues, who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyy, sorry for missing the update last week! Here we are though! Right before bedtime. :D 
> 
> I apologize in advance for any kind of red-light, green-light kind of pacing or obvious and obnoxious errors. I live without a beta so they're all mine.

Chapter 9

 

Swinging himself out of bed, Peter gathered up his day clothes. They would reach the planet today so best to get ready what he could. A quick look at the bathroom shows the red square of light on the wall next to it. Occupied then. He adjusted his path, clothes tucked under one arm, stopping before the holo; opening the galactic search engine. Going in virtually blind was always a bad idea, but when you’re trying to steal something likely to get you killed… Not-so-surprisingly, most folks didn’t appreciate being burgled.

One thing he did know besides the water-logged nature of the planet was its native species: The Salient. Well, he knew their name and general look. Time to fix that. Pulling up the official listing of the species he crossed his arms over his chest, careful not to let his clothes drop to the floor. What that taught him was he basics; moderately fast on land and hard to get away from underwater. Most of their speed on land came from being able to jump a surplus of twenty feet in one bound while they swam in bursts. The Salient came in all kinds of colors but generalized to green or brown or some mix thereof. Some of their races could poison others upon touch and were marked in vibrant, neon colors on black. Further still a few races looked like the hulking forms of traditional bodyguards, all mass and intimidation.

Commonalities among them were their large, thin-lipped mouths and eyes made for seeing at night. Nocturnal then; which made sense that reports of the planet had indicated longer night-cycles. So they would need to start this job close to dawn, when the citizens would be asleep and any guards likely awaiting their next rotation. If he was wrong then there was a lot more running in his future. Personally, he hoped for sleepy guards. They were generally easier to mislead and to slip past.

In the quiet of the “morning” Peter hears the bathroom door open, Rocket stepping out. Peter’s brow scrunches together, seeing how all of Rocket’s face is wet except for the very end of his snout and around his lips. Rocket isn’t dripping by any means but his fur clumps together and the neckline of his jumpsuit is darker than the rest. Leaving the window open for the next curious person he steps away from the table to the bathroom. Rocket passing him as he rubs a towel over his face, ears flicking off droplets of water.

Working through his newborn routine, Peter does his best to spend the least of time in the bathroom as possible. The brand looks much the same as the day before, irritated. Much to his chagrin the lotion _is_ helping with the maddening itch. Even though his palms feel slicker and smell like flowers. Gripping his blasters is going to take some re-learning if his hands continue to feel this slick.

He goes straight up to the cockpit after leaving the bathroom, both out of habit of piloting the _Milano_ and a more selfish, protective mindset toward her. The _Milano_ was his, and would always be _his._ Gamora and Drax were settled in the back two chairs, their safety belts left undone while they coasted through space. Crossing smoothly to the captain’s chair he settled into it, resuming the controls. Rocket, Peter assumed, still had more to do on whatever project if his “bath” was any indication.

So he clicked the belts into place, turned off auto-pilot, and fed more to the _Milano’s_ engines. Their high-whine a tinny noise just audible under that of the music playing from the tape-deck. A gentle thrum Peter felt through his shoes before he reached a speed he liked and the _Milano_ settled into the pace.

 

As they flew Peter could hear Gamora and Drax speaking behind him, presumably using a tablet as they looked over the diagram of where their objective was being held. Why she was trying to come up with a plan with Drax was lost on Peter. Getting Drax to understand plans could be… difficult. Especially when they weren’t ‘go in, grab the MacGuffin, get out’ maiming open to discussion. Which, technically, probably _was_ the plan. If one didn’t want to count the task of hiding the _Milano_ close enough to the building in question but far enough away to not be immediately noticed. Also sneaking to avoid capture, plus how this was a Nova job so law-breaking was off the table. Unless their skins depending on law-breaking.

Didn’t mean Drax didn’t like to be included, however.

So when they reached the swamp planet, Idarum, Peter parked them behind one of the smaller moons of the planet. Best to have a plan of action before breaking the atmosphere. Drawing power from the engines he both felt and heard them slow and quiet to bare whispers. The lights of the _Milano_ waking as the deep shadow of the moon swallowed them. Muting even the vibrant orange stripes of the _Milano_.

Peter tapped the release button of the safety belts, hefting himself out of the chair with a long stretch of his body. Comfortable the chairs may be, sitting in one for multiple hours would make anyone stiff. “Conference.” He said, gesturing to Gamora and Drax as he walked past them. Sliding down the ladder while the slaps of boots echoed through the metal floor of the _Milano_ above him. A casual turn brings him within easy reach of the table, re-booting the holo to the information he’d pulled up earlier. While not to night-time dimness, Peter noticed the lights had become softer; more inclined to stealth and hiding without plunging them into darkness.

Two thuds, one considerably louder than the other, followed him shortly after. All of the crew gathering to one side of the table, including Rocket who had been standing in one of the chairs. Groot’s pot place toward the center of the table until Gamora shifted it toward the edge. A steady hand holding it there to ensure it wouldn’t fall off and shatter. Rocket held some kind of nose plug in his dexterous hands, eyes sharp and attentive.

Gamora leaned forward, reaching out to the control panel facing them and turned on the table. A gentle blue light hummed to life, projecting the building-plans they had received from Nova into a 3D image. Rotating slowly was a building that looked like a bunch of stacked bubbles. Three of the largest “bubbles” each sporting smaller branches of one or more bulbs. Nearly the whole of the buildings were under a clearly-marked waterline. Flat platforms hosting box-ish buildings nestled on their surfaces while tube structures connected them to the bulbs. Similar workings existed under the water in a series of root-like tunnels for entry to the buildings. The distance to the platforms too high to reach from the water’s surface.

“The only valid point of entry is from underwater unless we wish to drop from the _Milano_.” Gamora started, her free hand pointing out one of the shorter tunnels away from the other clusters. “From what Nova has gathered the target is in this building,” She lifted her hand through the projection, crooking a finger to indicate a building on one of the central platforms. Very near the center of the largest of the three bubble-buildings. “There is a central elevator system that should take us right up to it. Our main obstacles will be the guards and navigating their halls without being noticed.” She intoned, dark eyes sweeping over the other three adults gathered there.

Rocket spoke up first, “Which means not all of us are going. Big guy over here is out, and we’ll need someone to stay with the ship.” Those sharp eyes swept up to Gamora’s face before landing on Peter. Gears turning with obvious intent behind them before he added, “I volunteer to go but I want Gams to stay behind. Figure she’s got the best head to come fetch us later. Obviously, Peter will come too.”

Peter and Gamora exchanged a short, meaningful look before Peter gave a short nod. Bending forward and sinking his finger into the building Gamora had indicated before the projection zoomed in, splitting it into four levels that continued to revolve. “A smaller team is harder to notice. We’re both experienced thieves and can bypass their security.” He put forth, eyes tracking the halls and stairs (more like slopes) up to a golden dot on the third floor.

Rocket tilted his head back to look at Peter, a snort gusting from his nose. “Don’t talk like we’re on the same level, Quill. I just want you because if we _do_ get caught you’re a good distraction. ‘Sides, this goes side-ways I can just blame you.” Rocket continued with a small shrug, one ear flicking dismissively.

Peter shot a glare at the back of Rocket’s head, bracing one hand on the table. “If I get the blame, you get partial blame. I’m not going to be the one who screws this up.” He sniped.

“Uh huh, sure thing.” Rocket said distractedly, nodding his head like he actually agreed. “You’re job, you’re fuck up.”

Gamora pressed her fingers into her forehead, exhaling slowly through her nose. Seeing the way Peter was bristling at Rocket’s words and Rocket’s predictable –if insufferable- need to poke at whatever sore spot he could. So she interjected, shutting off the projection and the holo, “If this goes south, which it should _not_ , it will be all our faults. Let’s get this done and over with.” Scooting Groot back into the center of the table. The sapling’s wide eyes going from one person to the next though without comment, following Gamora as she stepped purposefully into the kitchenette.

Peter huffed at the same time as Rocket, rolling his eyes before going to fetch his knapsack from his bunk. Time to get his gear together then. He barely had his thrusters clamped to his boots when he heard Gamora call his name. Her voice unyielding and promising retribution if not heeded. There were times when Peter wondered if he _liked_ being bossed around. This time came close, irritation a plucked line of emotion under his skin. He didn’t make her wait though, walking up and into the unoccupied bathroom. Locking the door behind him as he slipped inside.

Gamora held a roll of clear plastic in her hands, twitching her chin up as she spoke, “Pull your shirt up and unbutton your pants.”

Peter arched a brow at the plastic –normally used exclusively for leftovers- but did as was instructed. “So gonna tell me why you brought in the plastic wrap? Pretty sure I’m not planning on becoming somethings dinner. Besides, I’m pretty sure this race doesn’t eat Terrans.” He asked, shirt hiked up under his pits.

Gamora answered, stepping into Peter’s space as she held the film to his uninjured side and began wrapping in around his middle. “I’m doing this as a precaution; hopefully it’ll prevent your wound from becoming infected.”

Each word sent a soft breath of air over the exposed skin of Peter’s torso. Her cheek nearly touching him when she had to loop the plastic around his back. Peter kept his eyes forward, flicking to the ceiling a time or two. Soft pools of heat reddening his cheeks. They had close contact like this before, it tended to happen with small quarters and fighting alongside each other. In the quiet, with jitters skirting the edges of his thoughts, it made their proximity… more. If only to him. “That article tell you this?” He posed.

Gamora withdrew, breaking the film off with a quick swipe of her nails before drawing back a step. “Not specifically, others yes. Stay out of the water as much as possible.”

Tugging down his shirt and tucking it into his pants, fitting the button back into place without having to look. “Who knew, ship-hold items have many uses.” Peter commented, feeling the difference in his ability to take a deep breath already. She had wrapped it tight, meant to try and keep liquid out but also limiting his body’s ability to expand. “Staying out of their water seems a given but thanks for the tip.” He snarked, gentling the smirk it inevitably came with. He caught the indignation flicking on Gamora’s face before she realized the joke for what it was. Instead settling to roll her eyes at him.

“Field medicine is useful to all. We cannot exist within walking distance of medical facilities at all times.” Gamora noted, turning Peter around by the shoulder. “Take care of yourself and Rocket.” Those words were softer, quiet. Near alien in their worry.

Peter paused, fingers over the lock as he looked over his shoulder at her. Sincerity entering his own voice, “Of course. We’ll be in and out, no problem.” Gamora’s expression was as resolute and vaguely distant as it always was, but this time something heavy lurked behind her eyes.

They exited the bathroom, the _Milano’s_ engines kicking into life as someone –probably Rocket- turned them toward the planet. Running the ship on near silence as they dipped into the heavy, moist atmosphere of the planet below. The common area had cleared of bodies while they had been in the bathroom.

Tightening the strap of his knapsack, Peter patted Gamora on the shoulder, confidence leaking into his smile. There’s a temptation to let his hand linger there, to soak up the physical contact but he pushes it away. She’s still leery on extended touching unless it’s grappling and he doesn’t want to ruin what they’ve built. Some part of him might crave it (need it) but it’s a part he’s learned to ignore for the most part.

They both join the others in the cockpit, taking their seats without word. Fog washes over the _Milano’s_ window for a hot second until the temperature acclimates and they’re rounding onto the darker side of the planet. Hidden in a heavy field of clouds that leave half-formed droplets and snowflakes edging the windshield. Distantly the rumble of thunder can be heard even in the _Milano._

By the time they descend from the clouds the world around them is dark with night. Thickets of trees and scattered clearings all covered in the silver of moonlight. Rippling shadows creating pools of black, perfect hiding spots. Miles into the distance rain falls in heavy sheets, winds rustling the trees below. They aren’t strong enough to buffet the _Milano_ , not yet. Rocket guides them within sighting distance of the real-life cluster of bubble-buildings before expertly slipping the ship into a clearing. The trees all reaching up to tower over them while darkness swallows the _Milano_. Flickers of moonlight breaking through their heavy boughs as the trees stirred in the oncoming storm. It’s a good hiding spot as any and the tree roots should give them sturdier ground.

While Peter wishes he could know how long they had until the night cycle is over he also does not want to prolong the job. In tandem he and Rocket rise from their seats, descend to the main deck, and go planet side.

Stepping outside is like someone laying a thin but damp towel over Peter’s nose and mouth, a heat making even the light shirt and pants he wore feel heavy and hot. The humidity was strong with this planet. His boots sunk into the muck, squelching with each step despite the stubborn plant life swathing his hips. It’s by no means actual stealth but he’s too heavy not to sink with every step. Rocket looks to be having an easier time of it, feet light and traveling quickly to avoid getting stuck. Chips of silver light bouncing off of his gun and buckles of his jumpsuit.

Peter keeps pace and it isn’t long before he feels his muscles burn and ache in protest. The mud seems determined to swallow him but he doesn’t let it. Bringing himself into a light jog while trunks thicker than him closed in. How he doesn’t trip on their roots is anyone’s guess but he’s grateful for his luck.  They hike like for nearly twenty minutes in silence. While the bubble-building may be a ways off it never pays to be too careful. Then the trees part open to the wide, rippling surface of a lake. Its surface appearing like an abyss in the darkness of night. Faded spots of white lurking under the water; highlighting the entrances to the massive structures. Really, it puts some large mansions to shame. Stretching over nearly the whole lake and looking oddly flat despite its rounded surface.

Sounds hang in a strange distant-but-close feeling but a stillness resides over the lake. Peter catches the glimmer of Rocket’s eyes as they pause at the edge of the lake. Exchanging nods before Rocket plucks the odd nose plug looking thing from and pocket. Stuffing it into his nostrils with a small shudder. One muted splash later he’s under the water’s surface. Peter tilts his head to the side, touching the small piece behind his ear that has his helmet enclosing his head. A red haze falling over his vision even as he slips under himself.

He catches up to Rocket easily, noting the odd, flexing shape covering Rocket’s head stemming from the tip of his snout. Well, no worries about oxygen then. A hush presses against them as absolute blackness enfolds them, only pierced by the white lights and the subdued glow from Peter’s helmet. What feels like several long minutes pass before they get to the gaping mouth of the tunnel that is their entry point. Treading water outside its entrance the silhouette of Rocket moves forward, peeking into the tunnel. The raccoon flashed a thumbs up at Peter and Peter works to build his momentum again. His clothes lead weights dragging at his movements making him glad he left his jacket behind.

Entering the tunnel, swimming gets easier, a shift in the currents pulling them into it as opposed to the relatively still waters of the lake. It’s unnerving how the path ahead seems to lead into nothing even to his night vision. Giving him and presumably Rocket about ten feet of sight in front of them. The tunnel curves upward both propelled more by the strengthening current than their own power. Sweeping them into a massive chamber, water droplets splashing on its surface when they break the water. Echoing dully, settling the hairs on the nap of Peter’s neck on edge. His breaths come quicker than he’d like, feeling the plastic squeeze around his middle with each intake. His side burns with a righteous fury, the plastic rubbing it practically every time he moves. The chilly water feels good but he can’t linger in it.

A platform floats not too far away and the motionless nature of the chamber prods at Peter’s unease further. Each and every sound bouncing off its walls in flat staccato. “I don’t like how empty this place is.” He murmured, swimming toward the platform.

“Maybe we just missed the party.” Rocket commented, ducking just under the water’s surface to swim.

Peter is sure that isn’t the case but he lets the comment be, wet hands slapping onto the platform before he can haul himself out of the water. It sloughs off of him in wide streams. Slicking the surface of the platform even as it slips back into the water surrounding it. Gentle shivers run over Peter, goose bumps flaring up on his exposed skin. “Geez, c-can’t even spring for some heat c-can they?” His teeth don’t chatter. Honestly.  

Rocket snorts off to the side, eyes closed as he scrubs at his nose. The odd plug-looking thing back in his hand. Water drains from his fur, and Rocket does a very animal-like thing and shakes. Sending droplets of water in every direction and leaving his fur standing on edge but no longer dripping. “Quit bitchin’ and move it.” Rocket said tersely, striding right toward the pillar only a couple of paces from them.

Peter huffed out a breath, following suit without a comeback. Water still drips from his hands, his fingertips, the edges of his helmet, and squelches in his shoes but he doesn’t have hours to wait for them to dry. Just rubbing his hands over his arms until he has to reach out to a panel. Touching one finger to the center bar and flicking it up. Not worried about folks wandering in then. At the contact the mechanisms whirred into life, a high whine ringing in the chamber. A long minute drags by before doors –matched seamlessly to the walls- slide open to the elevator.

It’s empty.

Peter frowns, wondering why such a large place feels so empty. He knows he kept claiming this job would be easy but this… it’s _too_ easy. Maybe the high octane nature of the war over the orb had given him an unhealthy level of paranoia. Or maybe he was on edge because the building felt dead. He and Rocket stepped onto the elevator platform before the doors have a chance to close, Rocket’s tablet appearing in his hands. Lines of code already flashing by as the raccoon navigates menus, securities, and passive programs.  Peter took one of his blasters in hand, finger resting on the cool metal but ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Peter bending his knees enough to not wobble when the platform under them started upward.

Quiet between lasted maybe three seconds before Rocket piped up with, “So, you and Gams. I thought it would take longer.”

Rocket’s words and tone were casual but Peter took a double-take of the raccoon at them. “What?” He asked, indignant. “We aren’t anything, Rocket. Where is this even coming from?” Peter finished, glad the cool blue lights washed out whatever redness might be in his face.

Rocket didn’t even look away as he shrugged, eyes flicking between what were most likely camera feeds he’d gotten access to. “Could have fooled me, Drax too. Not that he’s hard to fool, but it’s hard to miss when you both go ‘missing’ at the same time. I don’t know what you did to get her to actually be interested in _you_ but it must be something grand.”

A shudder vibrates the platform under their feet, like it wants to stop, but they smooth out as they pass another set of doors. Peter groaned quietly, rubbing his face with his free hand. Only Rocket would want to have this conversation _now_. “I haven’t done anything like that, she… isn’t interested.” He finished lamely, fingers tightening momentarily on his weapon.

Rocket scoffed, a flash of teeth in the cool light. “Uh huh, sure. I _completely_ believe you.” He said though it was clear that he meant anything but. Whether he was serious about Peter and Gamora being together was debatable. There were times when even Rocket’s ramblings hid what he was really after though not nearly as often as Peter’s did. Deception was how Peter learned to stay alive. Deception and taking advantage of any given situation.

Peter let his gaze shift to the back of Rocket’s head, brow knitting together as he mauled over the words, their inflictions, Rocket’s posture. In the end he mentally shook himself, he didn’t have the time it would take to dissuade Rocket. He was growing fond of Rocket but it was hard to dislodge a notion once it took root. Instead he shifted one foot back, settling his free hand on the butt of his blaster and raised it to bear. The elevator slowing with a quieting hum.

The doors opened to a platform, the floor a sheet of opaque glass stretching out toward the horizon before them. Lights shine down from rectangular windows in the buildings crowding the platform, shadows flickering through them in uneven or jolting movements. Rocket dives forward into a four-legged run leaving Peter to sprint to catch up and keep up. Taking a quick left when an alley opens beside them, tall walls overshadowing the silvery moonlight and devouring even the light spilling from the windows.

His heart already beating hard from running, jangled nerves kick it up another notch when they vanish into the alley. It isn’t the same reaction he gets around frying meat but the panic rises like an incoming tide. Scowling at his own turbulent emotions Peter shoves the feeling aside, eyes forward and on Rocket as they dart past seemingly empty streets. The rumble of thunder grows closer overhead, a brisk wind whistling between buildings. They pass over five streets before Rocket comes to a quick stop. Leaving Peter to jolt to a stop, his side a fire of sensation that has his face twisting. While the plastic wrap may be meant to help, the friction is making him wonder if it’s even worth it.

Peter lowers himself into a crouch, pressing a hand over the brand and mastering control over his face. Smoothing it out into something more neutral. Blue-white light washes over Rocket’s face, dark eyes sweeping over the multiple screens on his tablet. Several Salients pass in groups of two on the screens. Patrols. Rocket flicks through a couple more screens –security cameras- before he bobs his head in a nod. Confirming something to himself. Watching over Rocket’s shoulder Peter can see the possible pattern, possible break, in the patrol routes. Peter settles back on his heels, steadying his breathing.

He and Rocket linger like that for almost a full minute, both exploding into action at full-blown runs. The door slides open when they’re only three paces away and Peter’s shoulders clear them with a hairs breath on either side. Then it’s a hall to the right and into a stairwell. Underfoot Peter can feel the floor is textured, tiny grain-sized bumps probably meant to provide a better grip for the natives. Peter doesn’t notice much different but he’s taking steps two or three at a time while Rocket climbs the railings in twisting, sinuous movements.

Alone, Rocket might have reached the fourth floor faster but he kept pausing, stealing glances at his tablet and letting Peter catch up. Keeping their path clear, guiding them away from the patrols.

Peter barely has time to plant his feet on the fourth floor landing before they’re both into the open halls. Passing by two halls on their right and entering the third. It stretches on for nearly fifteen feet until dumping them into a wide room. Shelves and cases ring the room, more creating wide aisles. In the center, obvious as could be, is the dagger. Even from the distance Peter recognizes the obnoxious patterning and patterned metal.

As one, he and Rocket slow to a stop before it. Neither reaching out to the dais despite the lack of a glass case or energy field. Rocket is fiddling with his tablet again, tail tip lashing back and forth. Checking the exits, Peter misses the quick glance Rocket flicks toward him. A moments hesitation before inputting a command into the tablet.

“Nothing guarding it but guards who ain’t here, grab it and let’s get back.” Rocket communicated, stowing the piece of tech away.

Peter nodded, gingerly picking up the dagger and stowing it into his knapsack. He isn’t going to chance how sharp the blade is by grabbing anything but the handle. It was a surprisingly heavy weight in his hand before being stowed. Target acquired Peter turns to their exit, getting ready to leave post-haste.

He stills, heart hammering away.

Two of the Salients stare him and Rocket down, weapons raised. Incandescent light illuminating the inside of their barrels.


	10. Unspoken Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes like a rabbit and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is shorter than the usual fare but I thought this was a good place to break it off. Peter likes to dig his holes deep. Or rather my muse does then push him into them.

Peter replaced his blaster onto its clamp, raising open palms next to his shoulders. Feeling them roll up to his ears, eyes locked onto the glowing chambers of their weapons. Weapons he doubted were set to “non-fatal.” In his peripherals he can see Rocket’s compacted gun resting in the raccoon’s paws. It hasn’t expanded yet and Peter decides it’s a small mercy. He takes one last, long breath he shifts in front of the now-empty podium. “That’s a little dangerous, pointing those around a room like this. Lots of expensive things.”

One the Salients, a little shorter and more green than brown, speaks in a throaty voice. “Trespassers, return the dagger.”

The soft whine of their blasters just touches the edge of Peter’s hearing. _Thump, thump, thump_ goes his heart. “Trespassing? Oh, this _isn’t_ open to the public? My apologies, must have missed the sign.” He hears himself say, a grin quirking up one side of his mouth. One hand gesturing around the room; the words spilling easily from him. Glossing over the bit about the dagger he flicked his eyes down to Rocket.

A thin line of fur stands at the nap of Rocket’s neck and his dark eyes are firmly focused on the guard’s guns. Peter can see the fine lines along his frame, tiny tells spelling violence was imminent. _Shit_. They get that kind of attention and the _only_ reception they’ll get is plasma.

“The dagger.” The same guard insists, tucking the gun to their shoulder.

Adrenaline hits Peter’s system then, the knowledge of danger firing the response. They could stand ground, get shot at before they could go much _or_ they could run. By the time he has his blasters or Rocket has his weapon ready to fire they’d be slag. Peter would rather not put probably priceless artifacts between him and the guards though it looks like he’ll have too.

“Rocket, get to the roof. Hail Gamora.” Peter says softly, looking at Rocket long enough to exchange looks. Then he makes sure to meet both of the guards’ eyes and bolts. A shift of weight, legs working in powerful pushes, hands pulling his Quad Blasters to bear. While the room leads out in the surrounding halls he can see a window. One directed out to the street even. Calloused fingers sit on the top button and _squeeze._

Bursts of plasma strike right through the window, leaving behind sizzling red glass. He can feel the thermal bloom of the guards’ shots behind him, lifting steam from his shirt. Singing the hairs on the back of his head probably. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t pause. Pause means no more head for Peter and he’s kind of against that. Then he’s at the window, launching himself forward into a roll that carries him through the hole he made. A blaze of blue-white light flies just past his hip, his heart stuttering at the close shot. When he’s vertical again his arms pinwheel, but only twice. Two floors pass within seconds and he fights against the heavy atmosphere, the fall, to ignite his thrusters.

They fire without hesitation, almost knocking his knees into his chest before he wrestles control over them. It does bump his back against the cool glass of a window, two bolts blackening the street where he’d been. Sharp but muted, a breath breezes past his lips. Close call there. Then his thrusters sputter with the release of the button on his thigh. Dropping him to the glass that send shocks of impact all the way up to his hips. Skirting around the blackened glass as he builds himself back into a run. Gotta keep moving, don’t give them an easy target.

By now the low, far-reaching wail of alarms reverberates in the air. Lights flare to life in windows and throaty croaks too far for his translator to make out slip just under the cacophony. Peter can feel his breath drawing dry in his mouth, his throat, the fight his lungs put up to expand. He’s expending energy, a lot of it, pelting down the street as he is. Sections of the plastic have fallen loose, sticking and pulling apart in equal measure. Again he’s reminded of the fire in his side but this time the pain feels a little further away. If he had a moment he’d revel at his body’s ability to prioritize.

Emerging from an alley he nearly falls over his own feet, turning to run not toward the elevator but toward the edge of the platform. The map flashing in his awareness to direct him toward an edge over the black waters. Whatever guards are out at this time haven’t caught up with him yet or are missing so badly he hasn’t noticed the blue-white bolts.

Karma listens to his thoughts, apparently.

A shadow flickers over him, a bulky-heavy shape landing feet before Peter. “Fuck!” He swears dropping into a slide that, unfortunately, puts his right side to the floor. It was an instinctual thing but Peter almost whites-out from the impact, instead popping up back into his run. His breaths are ragged as they leave him; lead settling heavily in his joints. Exhaustion pulsing in opposition to each beat of Fight or Flight. Injuries are injuries, requiring time and energy to heal. Energy he needs to get to somewhere safe.

“Hate my life.” Peter pants to himself, catching sight of a slice of silver. The edge! Super-heated air brushes past one foot, slagging the glass a bare breath from where he’d step next. “Hate it!” He reaffirms.

Seconds stretch, another shot goes wide of his shoulder, and then he’s dropping into another slide. Using his gathered momentum to reduce their target and send him over the edge further than he could jump. Salients are known for being faster in the water. Only an idiot would put themselves in the water to try and escape.

A lot of people call him dumb. Might as well give them a reason to.

Reflexes flare to life; pulling his legs close, rotating him forward, and finally extending both arms and legs into a dive. He’d never be as fancy as some, but he knows how to slip quietly into water. It parts for him, a cold rush that knocks the breath from his lungs. He rides it out despite the burn for air, staying as close to the surface as he can. It takes him maybe ten or twelve feet before he pops up for air. Inhaling sharp breaths even as he kicks at the water. Trading being above and below the surface while he swims as fast as he can. Hoping that the emptiness of the main bubble-building is reflected in the other two plus the relatively slow reaction time.

One thing he will admit to is a self-made conclusion that Salients are not active predators. They’re fast, but not blindingly so. They use weapons despite being able to close a lot of distance fairly quickly, and the one he slid under hadn’t tried to punch his lights out. He recalls the toads he’d find as a child, how they would dart away from his feet and hands but would also sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

So he uses this to advantage.

Splashes louder than his strokes echo behind him, ripples washing over his back. He doesn’t have a lot of time. His mask still in place (he barely noticed he hadn’t put it back) Peter arched his body, curving down and into the water. Wriggling himself into a system of tree roots boarding the lake. They press tight around him but he finds a bend in them large enough to crouch in. He turns off the running lights of his mask and settles in to wait. Smells don’t carry well in water and at this point he’s sure he reeks of swamp.

His night-vision can barely catch motion outside of all the roots but he tucks himself in deeper, back scrubbing roots and clumps of hard dirt. A swath of barely-there green right in front of him, another flicker to his left. Peter holds himself still and tries to calm his hammering heart. It’ll take Rocket time to get back to the _Milano_ even if he wasn’t being followed. All he has to do is last them out.

He counts the seconds, watches the shadows as they come in and out of focus. Feels the sensation start to leave his fingers and toes before they start to withdraw. Sheer milliseconds after the out-of-focus shadows leave his field of vision something comes up and swallows his foot. Jerking it harshly Peter has to grab onto the roots around him to stop the motion. Looking down he sees what has him. It isn’t a hand.

“Gross bastards!” Peter snarls, letting go with one hand to pulse his thruster then fire one of his Quad Blasters at the tongue’s owner. Bubbles of air swarm his vision but he catches the distorted sound of a pained wail. Working up out of the roots is harder than working in but he manages it somehow. Doing his best impression of a snake until he can place both feet solidly above the water. Peering up shows a couple of low hanging branches, about as thick as his hand at the base. They’ll have to do. He jumps, rough bark scraping his hands as he catches hold and hauls himself up. Every muscle in his body straining.

His whole body goes into fierce shivers as the night air hits him. Louder than before, faster. He remembers the storm cell off in the distance and swears under his breath. Of course it’s coming this way.

Wood creaks underfoot, a tenuous threat to break under his feet. Peter climbs higher, the branches becoming more plentiful, thicker, as he goes up. He only gets a couple body lengths up before he has to stop, sitting and leaning against the trunk. His shaking is only getting worse, his legs tired and sore and heavy alongside his arms. He collapses his mask, leaning his head back as he braced on hand over the brand. There’s no gunfire following him and briefly he wonders if he killed the one he’d shot. No love lost he supposed.

Peter isn’t relaxing but the urge to fall asleep or doze hangs like a noose around his thoughts. He forces himself to blink as his vision slips out of focus, head bobbing forward. A haze falling over him in a mist. Clouding his thoughts. He tucks himself closer into the tree, braces himself against another branch. Despite the chill he knows is there, surrounding him, heat simmers under his skin. Washing between stray breezes and shivers which rattle his teeth.

He’s in some deep shit, isn’t he?

Cursing himself Peter reaches up to where his helmet sits behind his ear; not activating it but opening his communications. To one specific channel. “H-hey, k-kinda n-need a pick-up. F-fast.” He chattered, hoping his message was clear despite his clicking teeth.

Moments past, worry flickering through the haze, then, “I have your location. Stay there.” Her voice is a soothing salve against his ear.

“P-plan on i-it.” He replied, wishing ruefully that she’d just tell him she told him so.


	11. Sheathed Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gamora fetches Peter and reminds Nova that her reputation stands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Sorry for the wait folks, took some time to sleep and this thing called "socializing." I hope everyone enjoys the update!

Peter loses track of time before the winds of the _Milano’s_ turbines combats those of the building storm, pushing the leaves and branches down around him. Lifting his head he sees the belly of his ship in sharp shadows, shards of light bleaching out the color of her hull. He isn’t sure if his shivers have gotten worse but his legs are slow respond. Tucking them under his hips and bracing his hands on the branch behind him. His wet clothes sticking to every bit of skin they touch. The feeling in his hands, his feet, is limited though they still function. Barely.

Slipping around as the _Milano’s_ cargo bay yawns open he sees it come a little closer. Gentle guiding speaking to Rocket’s piloting skills when it stops just feet from the furthest reaches of the tree’s branches. The inner lights of the _Milano_ light Gamora from the back, standing just behind the hinges of bay door. Pushing back most of the smaller branches and snapping the fragile ends off of the larger ones. He won’t have to jump at all really; he bets Rocket is pretty smug about that. Around him the creaking of trees sounds like the massive croak of a bull frog.

Fingers fumbling, Peter crept as far as he dare on the widest of the branches he could find. Exhaustion still pulls at him, tugging at his eyelids. His feet shuffling along the branch while nonexistent weights hang heavy in his joints, slowing him. Taking that one long step onto the extended doors threatens to buckle him. He wobbles, Gamora’s hand gripping his upper arm and Peter is grateful for it. His teeth chatter, skin hot, flushed. Rolling waves make him crave a bath of ice despite the numbness in his fingers, his toes. Moments wink in and out of his memory; but he finds himself leaning on Gamora, trying to draw himself nearer to the warmth of her body. A contrast to the burning heat most focused high in his cheeks and right side.

His side, still rubbed raw from the plastic, feels almost like someone is reapplying the brand but didn’t get the dumb thing hot enough. Peter’s jaw aches, teeth grinding together, throat tight to keep himself from whimpering. He smells, he’s cold, and his body just wants to tuck itself into his bunk and sleep for the next _week_. Christ, it was only a little running!

Peter hardly realizes it when he’s hauled up to the main deck and then dumped into floor, the loss of Gamora’s contact is a burst of cold ratcheting up the shivers racing over his spine. A weak moan leaves him at the sensation, missing the contact. Somewhere in his head he knows something is very wrong. So extremely wrong, he should be standing. Moving. Not sprawled onto the floor until Gamora (only her hands are so strong but so gentle) hauls him back to his feet. Or rather just picks him up in that motion, feet swinging over bare air. Pistons hiss and he thinks –knows, he should know- that it’s a door opening.   

Water cascades over him, plastering his slowly-drying clothes back to his skin. The water is scalding on his skin but whatever logical part of him still awake deduces it’s lukewarm. Excruciatingly slowly, scalding trickles down to merely hot and then something mildly considered warm. Peter can’t feel the plastic around his middle, water droplets clinging to his lashes as he pries open his eyes. Peering down at his side to clarify that yes, it is gone. His body stills and starts with leftover shivers, sensations racing up and down his spine.

His fingers pulse in faint aches, feeling a returning echo. He flexes them and they respond sending up sparks of needle pricks. Water obscures much of his vision, blinking as his brain catches up that his shirt isn’t on his person. When had that been taken off? The world around him is dull, a pressure exerted on the whole of him. A second of concern goes to the ragged edges of black around his vision. He just wants to sleep and if the shower wants to drown him more power to it.

A shadow falls over him, blocking the spray of the shower, swift fingers tugging and pulling at his belt. Blinking as he tries to rally his thoughts he pushes at those hands. Jerking back against the shower wall, slurring out something about how he doesn’t put out without a date (untrue, sadly). The fractured part of him clinging to consciousness doesn’t register more than jumbled up syllables. Nothing that would make sense anyway.

His efforts don’t do much dissuading but those fingers do pause; his belt undone but still in its loops. Sounds rolling over his ears in pitches and waves, somehow melodic. It’s a long, lagging second before he actually understands what’s being said.

“Peter, stop. You need to get out of these clothes.” Gamora. Oh, right.

Peter relents the meager pressure he’d been exerting on Gamora’s hands, fumbling open the button and zipper of his pants. Shimmying them off his hips so that she can drag them all the way off. The twisting motion sets off his side again; raw, burning, it sears past the heavy fog draping over his thoughts. He bucks, involuntary while his jaw clenches around a yowl of pain. It doesn’t do much for a noise, only the tightness of his throat confining it to the bathroom. Muscles twitch in his arms, his thighs. Dragging in a thin breath he swears on the exhale. Hands clenched into fists on the shower floor.

Aware once more his body still sags back into weariness, deflating against the support of the cramped shower. Its sharpness dies down after nearly a minute, becoming simple pounding heat. Holding only slight more importance than the heat in his face. Gamora guides his hand up to the bar halfway up the shower wall and he grabs hold. Slick with water his grip is slippery but he keeps it there.

He jerks, reacting when something between soft and steel wool brushes over the burn. Lighting the sensitive nerves on fire. His knuckles turn white where they grip the bar, Peter’s breath caught in his chest. To her credit, Gamora doesn’t pause as she cleans the brand and the area around it. Always stroking in one direction rather than scrubbing over the wound. He breathes in measured breaths, keeping himself still as the cold leaves him and some of his exhaustion. He still feels not-quite-right, between the returned ferocity of his burn to the heat broiling in his cheeks.

Mind you, he’s been around the pain block a few times, one gets kind of used to it. He’s even had some infections; minor ones. But if that _is_ what’s happening he wouldn’t have expected to feel like this so soon. Sure he’s been pretty active, a little more jittery than usual but it should be taking _hours_ for even the fever to start. That’s what the damn plastic wrap was for.

Shaking himself mentally as stressing over it now wasn’t going to change what was, he looked at Gamora. Her face is that ever careful blend of neutral and worry. All relaxed features and sharp eyes but thin lines around the corner of her mouth and between her brows. Peter knows it would be educational to look his burn himself but he’s feeling shitty enough, thanks. “What’s wrong?”

Gamora doesn’t look away from his side, dropping the cloth to the floor and brushing water over it to clean up the soap. “A lot of the blisters popped, and parts are darker.” She tells him without infliction, rocking back onto her heels to stand. Pulling Peter up to his feet by his armpits. One hand remaining to steadying him while the other flicks off the spray of water. He leans on her hand, fighting against the blink-and-you-miss-it black obscuring his vision. His feet find purchase on the metal floor of his ship, a comfort of home and the (relative) safety it holds for him.

Peter feels it when Gamora’s eyes land back on him, taking in the weight he places on her hand, the exhaustion he’s sure is written all over his body, and the roiling warmth he feels in his face. Shifting back onto his heels he accepts it when Gamora hands him a towel. Wrapping it around his shoulders, holding it tight around him. He’d dry his hair so it would stop dripping water onto his eyes but he’s pretty sure he’d be just as likely as to fall on his ass. So he blinks away the heavy droplets and takes a careful step back to lean on the wall. He feels more like he’s getting over an illness instead of gaining one, weak and tired.

He accepts it when Gamora dumps a couple of round, white pills into his hand and then places a miniature cup of water in the other. He is all up for feel less like shit though he guesses he missed her taking out the med-kit. He pops them into his mouth, downs them with a quick drink of water, and pulls the towel tighter around him. His boxers clinging wet and cold to his skin.

“I need your side, Peter.” Gamora says, half turned to dig into the kit once more. Plucking out the familiarized materials from the past couple days.

Peter shifts obediently, tucking the towel under his arm to expose his side. Letting his head rest on the wall, eyes drifting closed. The urge to sleep a siren’s call in his ear now that his body has had time to settle, now that the adrenaline has filtered out of his system.

He doesn’t even know he’s answered it, if only for a second or a minute, until Gamora is applying gentle pressure onto his shoulder. Calling his name in terse tones like she’s done it a couple times already. “Huh?” Intelligent, that’s him. Opening his eyes he meets the worried look in her own eyes, dark expanses he’d happily drown in under better circumstances.

“It seems you fell asleep standing up.” Gamora affirms his suspicion, prying him from the wall to direct him toward the door of the bathroom. “I will hail Nova, update them, and you are going to bed.”

“Okay, mother.” He quips sarcastically, mindlessly. His brief stint of unconsciousness boosts Peter’s clarity by a degree and it’s easier this time to place one foot in front of the other. The journey from bathroom to bunk feeling way to long for his memory. Peter is ready to simply collapse onto his bunk until he’s stopped by Gamora putting a hand on his chest. Pushing dry clothes onto him along with fresh underwear.

“Think you can handle changing, Peter?” She asks a hint of forced levity to her tone.

Peter takes the banter and scoffs at her words, “Nothin’ easier.” Despite his assurance, she lingers a hesitant tension pulling her shoulders tight. She does leave however, shuttering the bunks apart from the rest of the ship. He strips out of his last bit of clothing and ends up leaning on his bunk to re-dress himself. Half of his movements pulling at the inflamed flesh of the burn accompanied by bursts of fresh pain.

He does get into his bunk and cocoons himself in his blankets, curled inward and asleep before having to think about trying _to_ fall asleep. Deep and dreamless.

 

Gamora waits, her body a tight coil as she listens to the sounds of motion behind the shutters drops off. Stilling to silence and then waiting a minute further. Just to make sure that he’s down. Not that she believed it would long or much to put him out. The wane color of his skin, bright right high in his cheeks, the new discoloration and swelling of the burn. She finds her fingers curled tight into her palm, nails biting into the flesh there. Anger was something she was used to, used to hiding, used to wielding like a hidden weapon. She tucks it away, breathing in deeply just once and easing the coiled tension of her body.

Her strides to the table are smooth, confident, and decisive. Her chin lifted just a touch while calm covers her like armor. Calling up Nova with a few key strokes and leaning forward onto the table until her fingertips barely brush its lighted surface. A careful placement of balance that guarantees her face will be the center of whoever answers the call. Prompt, clean cut, a young-ish man fills the screen before her.

“Nova headquarters, the nature of your call, please?” Direct at least.

Her chin a little higher, embers a dim glow in her eyes she replies, “Nova Prime contacted us, the Guardians, for a minor job. It is done but as a result one of ours has fallen ill. So I request that Nova take the responsibility of their care.” Gamora takes deliberate care to put pressure on the word “request.” Truthfully, it was anything but.

A single blink is all her words inflict, the smallest bob of an Adam’s apple when comprehension hits. “As thankful as the Nova Confederation is for the assistance of the Guardians and their allies during the siege on Xandar, we are not at your beck and call. I can find another doctor closer to your location for your ally.” Bureaucracy is a fine shield, she admits.

Shields are gotten around easily enough. A twitch of her lips, flashing teeth for an instant, her palms flattening on the table. “We will come to Xandar, where they will be treated. Nova Prime will respect my wish. Have a medical team waiting.” She remains on the line long enough to see the shades of color the Xandarian loses. Long enough even, to see the faint tremble nearly hidden by lightly folded hands. Then she cuts the connection and lets her aggression fade. This trip was going to be a long one.


	12. Up and Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's infection starts to hit him and the crew has only started on the path to Xandar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to leave you guys with this chapter 'cause I felt bad about missing the last (two???) weeks. So it's shorter but hopefully fulfilling to my readers.

Chapter 12

 

Waking up in an absolute _furnace_ was not what Peter expected. The comforting blankets of last night now felt suffocating, sweat sticking last night’s clothes to his front and back. Breath heaved hot and heavy from his lips, his chest, and he threw the blankets off of himself. Shuddering when the cool air struck him. His joints hurt; his body was heavy with weariness. His legs a particular case of slow responses, aches pounding in his feet, his knees. Clearly his body thought that all of his running was going against his health or something. Regardless he rolled onto his feet, swaying. The heels of his hands coming up to his temples as a headache pulsed in his temples.

He had to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, dry and feeling like it had been stuffed with cotton. It took a lagging second but he saw the blinds were no longer in place and neither was the crew. Last to wake then. Gathering himself through the headache, the shivering fever heat, he walked toward the kitchen with shuffling steps, bracing one hand on the hull of the _Milano_ to keep himself vertical. While not a spinning mess, his tired legs and not-so-hot balance made the gesture necessary. Water sounded like a nice good first step, and then maybe he could pretzel himself into the freezer. Rocket’s vials be damned.

Peter is barely into the common area before a massive arm scoops him up onto an equally massive shoulder. Flailing weakly he braces his hands on the other’s back and blinks at the raised, twisting lines under his palms. Twisting to look back at the bald head of Drax he scowled. Blinking to keep his eyes focused as the larger man walks back to the bunks, “Drax, put me down I’m thirsty man!” He protested.

Drax’s chest rumbled under his hand as he spoke, “You are to remain in bed. You are sick, I will get you water.” After his words he deposited Peter back onto his bunk, picking up the fallen blankets into his hands to lay them over the bunk and Peter’s legs.

Peter didn’t let up on his scowl, sitting up to protest that yes, he could get his own water, _thank you very much_ when something deliciously cold was fitted to his side by Drax’s large hand. Peter gasped at the sensation of cold but found himself leaning on the larger man in relief. Not that it took away the fever but it did dull the sensation around the brand.

The brand. The brand only himself, four assholes, and Gamora were supposed to know about. Peter stilled, breathing in carefully as his stupid brain finally decided to be of use; to friggin’ _panic_. Had she told them? He hadn’t been out for more than a night, right? Where were they headed now? To Nova? To some weirdo fucking doctor? Wetting his lips Peter drew back to lean against the wall instead. His eyes dropping to his lap and replacing Drax’s hand with his own. “Gonna ask about it?” Peter asked softly, bitterly.

He could feel Drax’s eyes on him, a palpable weight to Peter. “No. I do not understand hiding a scar, hiding an injury. But Gamora seems to believe that you should be the one to tell us.” Drax stated, reaching out to put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, a motion that almost had Peter falling if not for a well-placed hand.

“Uh, thanks. Let’s just return the dumb dagger.” Peter muttered, fidgeting under Drax’s gaze. Drax drew away, the heavy weight of his hand vanishing in a low drag. A comfort Peter didn’t feel he had earned at any rate. Nor the utter lack of a reaction from the larger man. He had expected more emotion, a vocalized desire to be directed to the ones responsible. Maybe a more generalized and immediate urge for violence. Huffing out a soft breath Peter rubbed his free hand over his face. The haze of fever creeping back up on him, sweeping his concerns aside without a care for their validity.

Drax’s footfalls sounded dully on the floor of the ship, drawing Peter’s eyes up to the glass of water he held out to Peter. Peter took it, drinking deeply from the cup. The ice pack helped, sleeping had helped, the water helped. Even so, weariness dragged at him. Never mind he had been awake for about all of ten minutes, that he’d hardly walked ten feet. He was tired, again. Christ, he hated being sick. Draining the cup he set it off to the side, conscious of Drax still standing there, watching him.

Flexing his fingers Peter lifted his eyes to Drax’s face, holding out a hand. “We need to clean it and if don’t want me to be alone, you’re gonna help me.” He intoned, stumbling a little when Drax returned his grip and hauled him up to his feet. Dizziness tilting his world dangerously until Peter sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself. Unlike him and Gamora, when he and Drax fitted themselves into the bathroom it felt horrible cramped. Granted, the space wasn’t meant to hold more than one person at a time. They would just have to make do. Seating himself on the closed toilet Peter pulled his shirt over his head, glad to be rid of the sweaty piece of clothing. “Grab the med kit and let’s get this over with.” Peter said, resigned.

Drax did so without words, removing the kit and opening it on the sink’s edge. Taking out not only the tubes of burn ointment and anti-biotic but gauze pads, a bottle of dark-colored glass, and several wash clothes from the closet. Peter had to shift, sitting sideways so to give Drax a better angle of the brand.  Bracing his forearms on the sink while Drax opened the dark-colored bottle then peeled away the only bandage. Tossing the used piece onto the floor Drax grabbed a fresh pair of pads, holding one under while he folded the other over his fingers. Putting a light pressure on and around the wound.

Peter hissed tightly, his hands closing into fists and his jaw tightening. He didn’t look down, didn’t really think he was ready to see what the brand had become. No doubt it had changed color and was leaking something foul. The smell revealed when the bandage was removed wasn’t exactly charming, either. Thin spikes of pain shooting up from his side with each touch of pressure to the wound. Swallowing thinly he stared straight ahead and asked, “Who taught you how to take care of infections?”

Drax didn’t pause in cleaning the wound but his basso rumble was clear and steady, “Injuries on a farm would become infected if one underestimated them. One had to learn to properly take care of themselves.”

Peter leaned his head on his arms, turned to look at Drax. “A farm?” He recalled open fields, large animals, men and women turned a golden brown under the sun.

“Yes, I was a farmer before Ronan’s slaughter.” Drax answered simply, plainly, putting the two now-soiled pads on the floor beside the first one. Gathering one of the rags into his hand and pouring some of the off-colored liquid from the dark bottle onto it. Folding it to leave only the saturated part facing outward he went back to work.

The cloth touched the burn and the mixture set _fire_ to his side. Peter inhaled tightly, jerking away from the vicious stinging and slamming one of his fists down onto the sink. Drax’s hand braced itself on his shoulder, holding him still. Peter felt his tired body contract in several unproductive heaves; the smell of the wound, of the antiseptic ( _nothing_ stung like those), and his own ailing body rejecting wholly to the situation.

Breathing harshly as the sensation faded, he sagged against the sink. His breath fogging the metal while he felt the adhesive of the new bandage attach to his skin. Peter’s eyes drooped, the general exhaustion returning in waves. He felt Drax guide him back to his feet, leaning heavily on the larger man who led him back to his bunk. Drax settling Peter back onto the bunk with slow movements. The younger man out before Drax placed bare feet onto the bunk and drew the blankets over him. Drax brushing the curling hairs from Peter’s face before sitting on his own bunk, hands resting on his thighs, and resuming his watch over Peter.


	13. Red Streams and Flecked Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's mind wanders, all centered around one figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -A hand strikes out from a fresh grave- I LIIIIIVEEEEEEEEE
> 
> heh heh he... I'm... I'm back! Those costumes man, just uh, they get ya.   
> But in all seriousness my current costume season is over and I'm turning back to writing because work being a Big 'Ol Bag Of Dicks extending our shifts for an extra half hour (going from 11 hrs to 11.5 hrs) and Mandatory Overtime! Cheers! Haha... Ha... 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Waking up this time was no different than the last time, hot and smothering. Peter groaned softly, little aches and pains finding their way into his joints and bruises. Inflaming them. Sound rang through the  _ Milano _ as Peter surfaced from sleep; tinny as it bounced against metal walls and pipes. Behind him the tape deck was quiet, either having been turned off or the automatic timer coming into play. 

“What do you mean we don’t have anything?” Gamora’s voice rang out, incredulous. 

“I  _ mean _ we don’t have the good shit! Apparently, stealin’ from hospitals wasn’t on the approved list of bad things!” Rocket shouted back, ringing out from the upper deck. Irritation lacing his tone and making it easy to imagine the exasperated and sour expression on his face.

Peter levered himself up onto his elbows, arms quivering and curls of hair sweat-stuck to his forehead. He’d  _ live _ in their freezer at this point he was so hot. Or at least that was how he felt. Even lifting himself up that far brought a tightening in his throat, a wave of nausea churning in his gut. For a moment his vision tilted teeter-totter style before settling. 

Thuds vibrated through the deck of the  _ Milano _ as Gamora exited the bathroom, something clenched in her hand while her dark eyes stared holes up toward the cockpit. Lines of muscle and veins standing out against her skin. Gamora turned toward him, taking him in and her clenched hand loosened but did not open. “Peter…” She looked like she wanted to say more, maybe something about how he looked like complete shit or to ask how he was despite it being obvious. Her mouth closed though and that was the end of it, changing direction to come to his side. 

Gamora slid an arm around his back, before his shoulders and lifting him smoothly from the mattress to his feet. While not fast nor lurching Peter still sway between her arms; feeling himself pale while one hand latched out to grip her shoulder. His left leg, the one wrapped in bruises, folded under him. His nausea rose in his throat, causing him to gag alongside a case of vertigo. For a hot second he thought he was going to blackout; but several deep breaths later and his vision and stomach settled to manageable levels. 

Putting weight on his bruised leg was another story, levering it mostly on his toes to pose the weight it normally carried to his other leg and on Gamora. The bruises stood out on their own in the dull ache all over him and the simple burning from the brand, sluggish waves of discomfort. He wasn’t for sure but he’d bet Rocket’s explosives the areas were swelling, inflamed. Peter’s head dipped forward a little, blinking slowly as Gamora drew Peter against her side. Virtually carrying him back to the bathroom. Peter swallowing convulsively with the motion walking created, his nausea clawing in his throat. Surging waves of panic rising in the back of his mind at how quickly he seemed to be going downhill. 

Peter didn’t know if Gamora watched him or even glanced over, instead closing his eyes to close off his tilt-a-whirl vision. His head feels heavy, too heavy, lolling onto his shoulder. At this time he isn’t sure how the yelling even woke him up he’s so tired. 

It’s a huge relief when Gamora places him on the toilet to sit, resting his head and arms on the metal sink next to him. Groaning at the pleasant coolness of the metal, stretching out to expose as much skin as he could to its touch. “ ‘eels goo’.” He mumbled, cheek smooshed to the sink. He drifts, eyes shuttering closed while Gamora goes to work on the brand. Stupid dicks, stupid swamp, stupid pride. 

He does notice when she begins to clean it; Peter’s breath hitching while his fingernails dig into his palms. His body, even exhausted, would much rather curl away from the pain the antiseptic causes. Rousing him enough to drag his gaze to the top of Gamora’s head. The hair at the crown of her head in braided back, leaving the underside to fall over her shoulders in vibrant stream of red. Red, bright enough to be neon, forming rivers of colors against the near-black of her clothes and the green of her skin. Green so rich, so lovely, even with the spattering of darker and lighter spots across her shoulders. Contrasting so strongly, he just wants to touch it. See if the beauty would rub off on him, accept his pale skin in its colors. 

Peter lurches, Gamora’s arms wrapped around him to prevent him from falling forward onto the floor. Woah, when had that happened? Peter can feel the glass bottle in one of her hands pressed to his side. 

“Son of a bitch, Peter!” Gamora is hissing under her breath as she settles him back into a sitting a position. Bracing one hand on his shoulder to keep him upright. “Peter, focus on me. Look me in the eye.” Her words register but Peter blinks. It takes longer than it should to click in his fever fried brain but he gets it; drawing his gaze to meet hers. Dark pools that express so much and absolutely nothing at all. One day maybe he catch that oh-so-rare look of tenderness in them. 

A shake disrupts his vision but Peter redoubles his meager focus onto her face. “Wha-?” His throat is dry, rasping. 

“Focus, come on Peter. Just stay with me for sixty seconds, that’s all.” Gamora says, a now empty hand cupping his fever-hot cheek. 

Sixty seconds. It sounded like forever. Peter meant to raise a hand for a thumbs up but it faltered and dropped halfway there. “Yea, fo’use’.” Did she have freckles? The thought was absent, drifting. Focus seemed to have packed its bags with his immune system and left the whole building. Hell, left the star system probably. Thin, bubbling lines of worry are smothered by fever and pains, emotions he really should be having right now truthfully. 

When a soft weight was placed in Peter’s palm his head dipped forward to examine it. It was heavy enough to roll forward on its own anyway. Round tablets, somewhere between white and blue sat in his lightly curled hand. Two, four? Even blinking didn’t meld the image into something entirely usable but Gamora tilted his head up and brought his hand up to his face. Right, medicine, sick people took that. He didn’t keep anything on the ship that he couldn’t eat right? Surely. Probably. Hopefully. 

“Peter.” Sharper this time, insistant. 

God, he was fucked up wasn’t he? Still he dumped the tablets onto his tongue, two confirmed, two MIA. Water appeared in his hand, thinner but calloused fingers touching his own as he drank it down. It felt like heaven to his mouth and throat like monsoon rains on a desert planet. Gamora kept him from simply chugging it down in several large gulps, probably smart. She was smart, amazingly so. So beautiful, so smart, and so, so deadly. He loved that, adored it. 

Then he was on his feet again and his train of thought fell apart at the seams. Threads shredded and ripped away while he fought the urge to throw up what little he had just gotten down. He should be paying attention, should be recognizing his surroundings, but the haze over his mind condensed his would to how he felt and Gamora’s contact. Walking him back to his bunk. This time Peter hardly made it to his bunk before his brain checked out. Leaving him asleep (if he was being generous) in Gamora’s arms. 


End file.
